While making cookies, I called up to my 15 year old son to ask if he could open the vanilla bottle for me. He shouted down, “who’s the man of the house?”

I sighed.

This has been an ongoing debate at our house for a few months. He keeps declaring he is the man of the house, I keep reminding him that adult and who is the child.

But right then and there, I really needed that bottle opened.

So I gave in.

“You are the man of the house,” I said in a monotone voice. I heard the triumphant feet coming down the stairs, and he looked at me and smirked as he opened the bottle.

Ah. 15. That magical age. I couldn’t judge him too harshly as he is trying to figure out what it is to be a man. So I asked him, what does it mean for you to be the man of the house? Well, I am the only male here so I am the man of the house.

I could barely open and shut the freezer door, condensed water had formed a suspended iceberg. Like victims of a lost artic exposition, frozen peas lay stranded, forever frozen

30 years after packing for my first solo trip at 17, the difference in the items I am packing for this trip are flagrant.

Imodium? check.

Ibrufoan? check.

Clark walking shoes with custom insoles? check. check. check.

At 17, I was insouciant .. a passport and backpack was sufficient, and most notably I carried no keys… I was free to roam.

At 47, I was a bit wiser. Having my passport confiscated in Czechoslovakia at 23, riding a night train in third class out of Laos to Bangkok at 29, Food poisoning in Bolivia at 35, .. I have learned many a lesson. and I now have to safety tuck away the keys to my car and house.