If you haven’t gotten the point by now; I’m loving living at home. There are tons of expected perks (free food, rent, an endless supply of craft supplies) but there have been even more unexpected ones too, like my mother waking up early to hug me goodbye in the morning and my dad’s spontaneous engineering projects (let’s see what we can build from only craigslist materials!). Hell I don’t even do much laundry and sometimes they slip me a 20 just for being around. Yup, life is good, and there ain’t no way I’m moving out anytime soon. So I was all the more surprised when my dad caught me off guard the other night with a bit of bad news.

“Sleeping Booty,” he said (okay he didn’t really call me that, but go with me here). “Sleeping Booty, so can I tell you what’s really been making me stressed this week?” It was about 11:30pm on a Thursday, and we were just leaving The Pub, the place he and his basketball team have gone after every game for the last 20 years. I’ve gone watched him play for as long as I can remember, but in the last few years I’ve started tagging along to sip a few beers with my team of crazy uncles and hear stories about the good old days. This time they spent most of the night giving me crap for living at home and working with my dad, but we also got to hear some sordid stories from “El Postido,” their 55-year-old Latino point guard who’s only a few months from retiring from his 30 year run as a mail-man(hence Postido). It’s an outstanding group, and I know that they’re still together is one of the greatest joys of my dad’s life.

I was apprehensive as I nodded and waited for him to finish. I knew he’d had a rough week writing employee reviews, but in his slightly intoxicated state I was worried what he’d reveal. “My health,” he said defeated, “it’s not as good as I want it to be.” Guys, let me tell you, that is the worst sentence you can ever utter to your family and one of the scariest to hear. I held it together because I wanted to know what was going on, but had I been the one drinking instead of him I would have lost it, most likely taking off in a full on sprint.

Thankfully, it isn’t the worst case scenario like I thought. He’s more worried about the general pitfalls of getting older and letting down his team. He hurt his hand in a game last week and is afraid to tell the guys the swelling hasn’t gone down. He also has been having neck problems that just won’t quit and when he turns his head certain ways the nerves in his arm tingle.

Now really, he’s fine; no cancer, no degeneration, no hospitals. But this idea of my father generally wearing out hit a nerve with me. And it didn’t help that I had just read an article about taller people’s likelihood of dying young. My mind raced the entire car ride home, what if he has a stroke and has to relearn everything? What if he can’t be active with his friends? What if my kids don’t get to meet him? When did I start worrying about him like I am responsible?

I know I’m overreacting; his dad is a few days from celebrating his 99^th birthday for crying out loud. He’s probably going to be the bane of my existence until I’m 75. Really, I’ve got nothing to worry about.

But I’m starting to understand why my mom is still so upset about her dad’s death a few months ago. A world without my dad just seems unacceptable, like it wouldn’t function properly. What would his friends do? How would they replace him at work? Why would I ever get out of bed? It is hard to imagine all the people that wouldn’t get to know him.

Maybe I would be better off taking the ‘out of sight out of mind’ approach, moving out and just hearing about the highlights over the phone. He’s had knee trouble before, and I didn’t worry at all; it sure is easier that way. But this time I’m front and center and he’s got no time to hide or distance to soften the blows. Even with my mom things are different, suddenly I’m ‘great at keeping secrets’ and ‘just the person’ she can say things to. I never used to be the one she shared things with, but now I’m mostly grown, trying to help with things I never expected. I like it, but sometimes, you know, I’m just dealing with things way beyond my maturity level. This is a whole new dynamic, seeing a vulnerable side to my parents, one that I’m not sure I’m ready for.

So when did I become 24, watching my dog hop around on 3 paws, hearing about my mother’s insecurities and seeing the tears in my dad’s eyes as he thinks about letting down his team? Living at home is hard, and part of my wants to go back to just being their daughter (much more time to listen to my 90’s albums). But then again, I know I’m going to look back on this in a few years and be so glad I spent this time with my parents. Because for the first time I’m getting to know them as people and not just the caretakers I used to need.

p.s. El Postido totally got invited in by an open-robed postal patron. Rumors have to come from somewhere.