Homecoming Season

Nov 09, 2025

I like this time of year, though not as much as the chickens do. Our residents of Cluckywood love it. As chickens go, they have a lot of freedom generally, but as we head towards Winter, the area they get to free-range in gets extended.

When let loose in a garden, chickens destroy everything. They are voracious peckers (feel free to insert joke of choice here). But, when the seasons change, we want to get rid of weeds and bugs and spruce up the soil before Spring, so it makes sense to pretty much allow the chickens to run wild.

I guess you could say we’ve sort of done the same with Lachlan since he got Frank (his 2007 Toyota Corolla). Not that Lachlan runs wild - in fact, wild is precisely the opposite to what he’s running, as he’s become the designated driver for his friends.

If one day he becomes a parent, he will be very well versed in driving teenagers to and from wherever they decide to go, as that’s what he’s doing now. And he’s loving it. Him and his (not so wee) pals go everywhere: Want to see a movie downtown? -Let’s do it. How about a weekend trip to the beach? No problem.

In so many ways, it’s been brilliant. Lachlan loves Frank (so much so, he wants to get him a CD player - because CDs are now ‘cool’ apparently) and the freedom Frank brings. And he’s so worried about losing this freedom by doing something stupid, he is diligent about not drinking or smoking. As the self-appointed designated driver, he runs all his friends home. Which means that he generally gets back late.

I have to admit, I struggle a bit with that. I don't like to sleep till he's home. Which is, of course, totally ridiculous. When I was 18, I’d already left school, and home, and was up to stuff I'd be horrified if either of my kids were up to.

This is Lachlan’s final year at school; he’s leaning into all the rights of passage with great gusto. This week, we went out to buy his outfit for homecoming (An annual dance American high schools do. It’s related to sports, but don't even ask me about American sports.) So off we went in Frank to the shopping mall -Lachlan driving, me with the cash.

Sitting in the waiting area outside the changing rooms while I tried on fancy new clothes was a thing my mother used to do when I was a teenager. Now it is my turn. I consult on fit, and fetch different sizes, and suggest what might go with what. Though in the end, he knows his own mind. He may be my baby, but he is also a man. Now the sales assistants, that I used to think looked groovy, look about 12, and they talk to me like I am the old lady. Which, seemingly, I am.

The date of the Homecoming dance coincided with Fergus’s birthday. I used to go all out on the kids’ birthdays: Parties, and themed cakes, and bouncy slides, and party bags. And truthfully, it never suited Ferg. He likes things casual and small. Over the years I’ve learned to do his birthday the way he wants, and in truth, I like it better.

Anyway, because his birthday was the same day as Homecoming, Ferg told Lachlan he’d just move his birthday dinner to the following day because there’s only one senior year homecoming and Ferg plans to have plenty of birthdays.

So on his actual birthday, when Lachlan was still at school, Mark, Ferg, and I played hooky and went out to a diner for brunch.

Sitting in our booth waiting for food to arrive, I noticed a couple coming in for brunch too. Both somewhere in their early 30s, the man carried a folded-up stroller, the woman a sleeping toddler. Both the man and the woman looked exhausted. Parenting young kids is an extreme sport. Reasoning with the desires of a two-year-old is like reasoning with the desires of a miniature drunk. They're hilarious, but relentless.

Our food arrived, and as Fergus gleefully welcomed his chocolate milkshake, I laughed thinking how some things haven’t changed at all over these years. A lady was having a birthday on the other side of the diner, and the waiting staff were singing till she blew the candles out on her cake. I asked Fergus if he wanted the waiters to bring him a birthday cake and he shuddered disgusted, and that made me laugh some more.

The toddler beside us had woken up and had decided it was time he explored his new surroundings. He wriggled in his mother's arms, and stretched, and complained. In his miniature-drunk mind, it seemed to make complete sense to climb on top of the table and to object loudly when he discovered that was not allowed. Averting some kind of plate/ cup spilling/ hot food catapulting on the floor disaster, the man picked up the boy and took him for a stroll around the restaurant while the woman took the opportunity to have something to eat.

I want to tell her how fast this goes. How it feels like forever because it's never possible to get enough sleep. But one minute she’ll be awake at night because he had a nightmare or needs a story or a cuddle or a diaper change. And then the next minute she'll be awake because she’s waiting for the sound of his car on the driveway.

How this little human, who currently sees her as their entire world, will one day emerge as a proper, fully formed person who views her as their equal.

And that, as magical as that really is, sometimes she might find herself wanting to go back and do the whole thing again - except maybe a bit better this time. Because she’ll know how fleeting it is. And what a gift it all is. And why it matters.

But instead, I sit with my husband and my grown-up son, and we talk as three grown adults who love each other.

I smile at her when we get up to leave, and she smiles back, tired. On the way out, we pass the man trying to maneuver the miniature drunk, who having noticed another kid with an interesting-looking toy, appears to have concluded that ownership is based on who can yell the loudest.

And we get back to Ferg’s car and head off home.

And yesterday for Ferg’s delayed birthday, all four of us went to his favorite diner, and there was great chat, and laughter, and burgers, and milkshakes aplenty. And no small children at all to be seen.

It’s been a kind of beautiful week. For all of us Tweddles, including the chickens.

So I’ve no idea why I feel a little melancholy. I expect it’s just really the change of the season.

PS: Please click on the heart emoji to like this post. If you do, I might try to learn a little about American sport….maybe.

P. P. S: If you enjoy talking/listening/stories/ random facts, come and join me and Mr Tweddle at Fish and Bear. For details and booking go to Fishandbear.net