I’ve written before that two of my three high schoolers take college classes. They don’t drive, which means I take them and tuck my grown out bangs behind my right ear and type while they’re in class. The halls smell like new gym floors at the community college, and the lights buzz (a person’s eye bags look infinitely worse under those lights, fyi). Cold air hovers around my neck because the only available “lounge” chairs stand in front of a drafty double window overlooking the parking lot.
Me (today): How many absences do you have in your classes?”
Oldest: Like, how many times have we missed, or how many can we miss?
Me: How many can you? I can’t keep track.
Oldest: I have three or four left.
Me (knowing I shouldn’t): Do you want to blow off class?
Oldest: I’m never gonna say no to that.
Middle: I don’t know…
Me: I just don’t feel like it. At all. I know I’m not supposed to say that to you.
Oldest: I don’t have anything due.
Me (envisioning my kids someday dropping out of college because I set a bad example): I just can’t make myself go to class.
Middle: I guess it’s fine.
Oldest: I would never choose to go to class.
Me: You have to go to class. Only once in a blue moon can you skip. You know that, right?
Middle: My professor has missed more than we have.
Me: I’m going to change into pajama pants.