Kristy Kelly: Who turns on the heat in July?
I thought I was the adult—until the adult child touched the holy grail: the thermostat.
My son turned the heat on. In July. In North Carolina.
Let that sink in.
How does a man-child, raised by a woman who rode the struggle bus all the way through life, have the sheer audacity to not only approach the thermostat but to switch it to heat during the dog days of summer? I pay the electric bill, and I still pause before adjusting the temperature, calculating the potential impact like I'm making a stock trade during a recession.
We’ve all heard the jokes, television dads and internet memes have canonized the thermostat as the ultimate battleground. It’s the Cold War of modern domestic life. But no one told me that one day, the enemy wouldn't be my partner, but my child.
There are literal lockboxes for thermostats. I used to laugh at those. Now, I understand.
The burned smell of the furnace kicking on after months of summer dormancy woke me like a horror movie soundtrack. I shot out of bed in a sweat, absolutely certain that either the devil himself had entered the ductwork or someone in my house had committed an unforgivable act.
It turns out, it was both.
At 5:30 in the morning, while most households are tucked beneath their covers dreaming of cool mountain breezes and well-behaved children, I was stomping up and down the hallway, railing against the injustices of a heater running in July. My son, eyes wide and clutching his phone, was probably Googling “what to do when your mom goes full exorcist over the thermostat.”
Listen, I’m 46 years old. My biology is questionable on a good day. I don’t need any help being hot.
It’s hard to stay mad, though. These are the same adult children who cater to their mother’s chaotic nature with patience and humor. They are kind, empathetic people. Most of the time. One hug, and I was done being mad, just like when they were little. Only now there are fewer tears (theirs) and more exasperated sighs (mine).
Navigating life with adult children should be the title of my next book. I spent their whole childhoods preparing them to leave, never once considering what would happen if they didn’t. But it’s not that I don’t want them here. I fantasize about living on a compound with all my kids in their own little cottages like some chaotic, love-filled commune.
The challenge isn’t their presence, it’s figuring out where my authority ends and their autonomy begins. They’re adults now, contributing members of society, but I still find myself wanting to shout, “This is my thermostat, and you will not make me sweat indoors in July!”
I’m not an expert in parenting, life, or emotional regulation before 6 a.m. But I know this: what happened this morning will live forever in the “bad decision” column, his for turning on the heat, mine for reacting like a banshee with a utility bill. Still, it felt completely justified.
Because again—and I can’t stress this enough—who turns on the heat in JULY in North Carolina?
