Teenage Boys are Strange Creatures

Just when I think I have my teenage boys pegged for life… they turn over a new and refreshing leaf that does this mama’s heart good.  It’s happening in repeating stages right now.  I’m not sure why, but I’m not voicing any of these questions aloud, so as not to disturb the force.

It all started about a month ago.  Holding my coupon envelope while pushing my grocery cart through Safeway, my cell phone rang. It was my 15-year-old son.  He was calling to inquire about the correct procedure for washing his comforter.  Glory be!  I explained that it is exactly like a load of clothes.  BAM!  I could hardly breathe for the clean-laundry-loving juice pumping through my veins.

I arrived home that day to find three large garbage bags stuffed full of clothing in the loft.  Inquiring minds want to know, so I asked a few children if they knew what the bags were for.  Seems it was my same comforter-washing son.  He had gone through his closet AND dresser and removed all the clothing that was too small, stained, holey and nerdy.  Never in his 15 years has he performed this action.

Then I glanced in his room.  Miracle of miracles.  I could see the carpet under his bed!  It is usually hidden by piles of smelly shoes, biking gear, magazines, dirty and/or clean clothing.  It was spotless.  I was speechless! Unbelievable.  I thought it would take a college roommate or his wife to convince him of his slobbish ways.  I’m not sure what happened to bring about this change, and I’m not disturbing the force and asking any time soon.  The amazing thing is that it is still that clean… a month later.  It was like BAM! he grew up.

I was basking in the realization that 50% of my sons were now considered not slobs.  Wow!  I realize 50% is not a passing grade, but I was at 0% just a month ago.

THEN it happened.  I was in Walmart picking out avocados that were ripe to perfection when my cell phone rang.  It was my 13-year-old son inquiring how to launder his comforter.  I about dropped to the tile floor in Wally World in shock and disbelief.  I explained that it is exactly like a load of clothes.  BAM! I could hardly breathe for the clean-laundry-loving juice pumping through my veins.

But, unfortunately, that is as far as son #2 got in the goal of living a tidy, laundered, clean lifestyle.  But he’s two years ahead of his brother in the comforter category. Yet, I have hope.

 

Horror of Horrors

Yesterday was an exciting day for our just-turned-14-year-old son, Austin, the triathlon winner.  A sports writer from our local paper came to interview Aus about his hockey to triathlon story.  He said that he checked out the results from the race and he had to go up four or five age categories before Austin’s score was not in the top five!  We didn’t know that. When Austin told him that just two weeks before the race he only knew how to doggy paddle, the guy was sold.  The story will run next Wednesday (of course I’ll link the article here!) and he is also submitting the story to the major US triathlon magazine… which I don’t know the name of.  I’m new to this triathlon deal.  Just three weeks ago I thought triathlon was spelled triathalon.  See, I’ve come a long way already.

Ok, onto the horror of horrors that has had you gripped from the moment you read the title of this blog.  About twenty minutes into the interview, a photographer shows up at the house to do a photo shoot of Austin.  The first words out of his mouth were, “Is there a trophy room where Austin has his awards?”  Well, yes there is.  But it’s the boy’s room.  The messy boy’s room.  The room with clothes on the floor and unmade beds.  I actually put my hands to my head and spoke the words, “Horror of horrors!” out loud, revealing my housekeeping secrets.  Downstairs is sparkling clean.  Past the middle landing on the stairs, you’re on your own, baby.  Hard hats may be required.  I have too many things to worry about like cooking, and laundry, and homeschooling, and gardening, and adopting, etc. to worry about the kids’ rooms being spotless.

They didn’t even give me two minutes of grace time to throw things under the beds.  The photographer was right on my heels going up the stairs.  Without much shame, I started shoving, hiding, smoothing, throwing, moving, etc.  We did get one-quarter of the room presentable in about five minutes.  To calm my nerves, I had to leave the room while they took the pictures.  Good grief.  Don’t worry, my picture won’t be gracing Good Housekeeping anytime soon.  The word is out, unfortunately.

I’ve always said, “If you want to see me, come on over!  If you want to see my house, please make an appointment for two weeks out.”  See, it’s true!