When he questioned the wisdom of me running downstairs in my socks at this time of year, I realised I would have to make the most of putting him straight.
Soon he would be gone, leaving the chaos of home for the as yet unknown chaos of a flat in a much colder part of town.
I gently pointed out that I had been walking sedately down the stairs a year ago when I fell and cracked some ribs, and that the offending socks had been new.
This year I had taken the precaution of not buying myself any socks at Christmas, so I figured I was safe.
I was right.
The year 2010 is the year in which I will become footloose and fancy-free after almost 28 years of having children living at home.
It is a strange feeling, even though setting your children off to make their own way into the world is what parenting is all about.
You know they will turn up sheepishly from time to time wondering if you can "lend" them money because of this or that crisis.
I may tut-tut to myself about young people and how I was financially independent from the age of 17, but if I am honest I remember that when I got down to my last five dollars in Australia once, I knew Dad would help me out if necessary.
As it turned out, he didn't need to.
Will I be an awful mother-hen parent who invents reasons to get the family members together in the empty nest just so she can check all their feathers?
Will I need to gather them regularly so they can give advice about what new music and television programmes are worth checking out?
Perhaps I needed some advice on what to do from the wisest of the wise, the internet.
Information I found there - and I know it must be right because everything on the internet is - suggests I may be gripped by a feeling of panic or inadequacy when my baby departs.
It does not explain how this will differ from my parenting life thus far.
Disappointingly, the internet advice seems to be saying the occasion of the empty nest is not the time to laze about on the couch eating chocolates and anything which will go on toast, but rather the moment to be seized for increasing exercise and focusing on health goals.
Couldn't a reasonable health goal be ensuring that at least half of the chocolates contained nuts of one sort or another?
Being able to rise from the couch without props could form part of the exercise regime, couldn't it?
One site suggested that I could start a blog and interact with other empty-nesters.
The mere thought of torturing others thus is enough to make me seek out the gin bottle.
Perhaps I didn't search long enough through the 28,800 entries on empty-nesting, but I did not see anything there about the dangers of resorting to alcohol abuse.
One site said I could choose crisis or rebirth, but I am not sure either is appealing.
One adviser also suggested it was an opportunity to spend the rest of my life living my individual authentic life, which sounded really great, if only I had any clue what it meant.
I want to think it means allowing myself to develop my innate crankiness.
To that end I have already started bombarding companies with complaints about their products.
This is likely to get worse, as once I am living alone there will be no-one to gently ask if I am being over the top.
Of course I won't be truly alone. I have a cat, but I think I might need professional help to cope with her.
She hates it when there is only one person at home, cries as much and as incomprehensibly as a baby, and demands constant attention.
On the positive side, when I talk to her she probably pays about as much heed to anything I say as any of the children did, and she hasn't yet learned how to say "Whaddeva" or "So?"According to the internet advice, I do score a few brownie points for preparation for departure.
In common with his three brothers, he can cook.
He will arrive in his new abode ready to share the learnings from the latest Edmonds cookbook.
And even his slovenliness has its blessings.
It is hard to imagine being the sort of empty-nester who would spend miserable hours in his room after he has gone, drinking in the lingering aroma of wet towels, dirty socks and sweaty hockey shin-pads.
He's my baby and I'll cry if I want to, but there's no need for masochism.
- Elspeth McLean is a Dunedin writer.
