*knocks flashlight off the edge of the bed*
Aubrey picks up flashlight, places it back on the edge of the bed, or possibly on a shelf, where it would be safe from flailing arms in the future, and goes back to whatever she was doing.
This is me, living with Mom:
*knocks flashlight off the end of the bed*
Mom: *gasp!* what was THAT?!?
Me, bending over to pick it up: Just a flashlight, Mom.
Mom: a WHAT?!?
Me: a flashlight.
Mom: just a flashlight? Are you OKAY?!?
Me: i'm fine, Mom.
Mom: why did you knock the flashlight off the bed?! did it break? what are you DOING in there?!?
Me: looking for something.
Me: JUST A BOOK OR SOMETHING.
Mom: what kind of book?
Me: something for 'the game'.
Mom: aubrey. i really wish you wouldn't spend that much time playing that thing. it isn't healthy, you know.
Me: *sigh* yes, mom, i know...
*stares* yes. that has really taken some getting used to. that, and the fact that i was used to spending a LOT of alone time, and doing everything for myself, not having to help others out except on rare occasions. i can't even remember the last time i had the house to myself, and have had it to myself an entire two times since i've gotten here, both for about 2 hours.
now, i get to be 'errand daughter', i.e. "while you're up, would you mind getting me some ice water? actually, how bout some ice and a pop? you need to chip the ice first, of course. no, my glass is in here. yes, and chip the ice with the hammer. you need to hit it hard. and could you bring me the chips? (after all that is done, and i'm bringing her stuff to her...) and could you move the fan so it's blowing on me better? and hand me the phone? and would you mind.... and could you just real quick... and then....
and the way mom talks to me sometimes, explaining eeeevery little detail as to how to do a mundane thing, i.e. wash dishes... i actually said to her once, "geez, mom, it's a blooming miracle i was able to get along ON MY OWN for the last TEN YEARS."
THAT statement went over like a whore in church. like a diabetic bathing in frosting. like a recovering alcoholic hosting a beer festival at his home.
yeeeeah. so this is what it's like living at home...
but i love my family.