Wow, I wrote this over a year ago and never edited it to publish it. It is rather lengthy, although gave me quite the giggle. Not much has changed here. Quite simply, I hope you enjoy it and are able to relate in some crazy way – unedited and all. Enjoy!
I have often heard friends of mine complain about their teenage daughters. It is for some reasons I can understand. After all, I was a teenage daughter once. Many moons ago. Chock full of drama and emotions I could never fully comprehend at that time. It wasn’t unlike me to go from angelic to complete bitch, snarling and foaming at the mouth. And yes, for that alone I am thankful for no daughters. Although, it is not so pretty from this side of the fence either my peeps…
My teenage sons often institute different dilemmas but nonetheless, dilemmas. Let’s face it, they are “Weird Harold’s”. Ones who I am expected to raise into self-sufficient and successful men? With manners? Who some self respecting woman will fall in love with AND want to stay with? Are you kidding me? There’s barely anytime left!
I’ve known these two, male, people for sixteen and thirteen years. As their mother, I have made every attempt imaginable to teach and encourage application daily in order to penetrate through their thick skulls something as basic as proper toilet etiquette. A small task as simply lifting the seat to pee baffles every inner working of my mind! They can’t even shut off the light after leaving the bathroom! Or any room.
Getting up for a potentially good urination in the middle of the night where either I,
A) am sitting in pee or, B) I fall in an unflushed toilet, is highly probable. Should I choose to address it, of course neither son “does that anymore.”
I don’t care what professional strength cleaner is out there, the smell of urine in their bathroom does not leave. These people are animals. Gross animals! I’d rather take my chances in a portable toilet on the last day of a Burning Man festival.
If my children, my boys, my offspring, would just keep their bedrooms and the bathroom clean, I could better ignore attitude adjustment issues or arguments of teenage logic. Their bedrooms exude smells that seem to resonate what I could only compare to as smelly feet and armpit odor and possibly death. My eyes literately burn and tear. I’d like to say all the tears are due to the smell. Alas, not entirely. It’s also because of utter frustration and an enormous need for release to avoid throttling each of them out of existence. It’s enough to make you lose your breakfast, lunch, AND dinner. It’s not just my children, it’s also their buddies. And when they’re all hanging out in their small bedrooms, I avoid that plague entirely. Did that once, not going back.
It also appears as though both the atomic and nuclear bomb went off only 10 minutes after they “cleaned” it. Gathering an armful of cups and plates from my their bedrooms to as far as the kitchen counter is not uncommon. And although my eldest son is quite an accomplished sportsman, apparently he stinks at basketball as his clothing never seems to make it into the laundry basket only a few inches away.
I will say, aside from the stinky bathroom and bedroom, older brother does happen to spend more time primping in the bathroom than I do. He has acquired this need to have $20 hair wax in order to create a hairstyle that resembles something like Gumby. He wears braces and thankfully spends more than adequate time brushing his teeth. Where the stench comes from in his room, I don’t know. I know he owns deodorant and I’m asked frequently to buy it. So I presume he uses it. I could opt to search under the bed for it. Yet frankly, I’m really terrified.
Like older brother, Lord forbid younger brother makes his clothing into the laundry basket. Understandably, he stinks at basketball. His room is otherwise cleaner and for reasons scientifically unknown; less odor free. However, he is one of those kids that changes clothes like every hour because he dropped like an eighth of a teaspoon worth of water on it. Thus, leaving me chronic loads of laundry and tons of time spent wondering if in fact, I had even seen him wear the same said item of clothing. Little brother’s hygiene is less to be desired; in essence, he has none. He will try to convince you he’s brushed his teeth or he actually cleaned his entire body during his thirty second shower. Trust me, he is not working to conserve water.
When my youngest was little, he was the child who would insist on dressing himself and combing his own hair. He would come out of the bathroom or bedroom so proud of himself despite the fact he resembled Alfalfa (from “The Little Rascals”), with a suit a few sizes too small and red Spiderman shoes that blinked whenever he walked. To support this new found independence of his, as he walked out the door to the bus stop, I would lovingly kiss him goodbye, hold his chin where his beautiful blue eyes met mine and say, “Be sure to tell your teacher you dressed yourself today, okay? She will be ever so proud of you just like I am!” He would proudly smile and say in his sweet little voice, “Okay mommy!” And off he’d go, blinking Spiderman shoes and all! To this day, his sense of fashion is not that much different.
Now, it’s the first wrinkled item pulled from a disorganized dresser drawer and jeans (must be dark blue and from Walmart) that can withstand flooding because of his abnormal growth in height within the past 2 months and his refusal to go out to shop for new clothes.
Little brother is full of pimples and zits, a voice deeper than older brother, feet resembling a clowns, and hair that appears as though he’s transforming into a Rastafarian boy in spite of the expensive product line used to tame his once silky, smooth, straight hair.
Both of them suffer with apparent intermittent memory issues. It appears the height of the issues presents itself during occasions of unloading the dishwasher, cleaning rooms, and their bathroom. Yet for some reason, the issue quickly resolves itself when they hear a five minute song playing and sing along somehow knowing every exact word. And of course, they forget to feed the animals when I ask. Yet Somehow, I don’t believe there to be a time in their teenage lives where they have forgotten to feed themselves.
Every fifteen minutes.
Oh heaven to Betsy…their appetites… Apparently the joke, “they must have hollow legs” is a true. Yet, I have not personally fact checked. I have come to firmly believe there is not enough food in this world to sustain them. Or, financing high enough to support this… this… scarfing addiction. Do they really need that much food? My husband and I go to at least three different stores to shop for deals to adhere to this thriving hunger. It takes a full day to do it. No sooner do we walk in the door with two armfuls each with just the first load, and these people are wide eyed and famished, circling around us like scavengers and ready to stake their claim. We barely get the food put away in the fridge and pantry, and it’s practically empty again.
Poor little Alejandro and Lupe in Bolivia and Nanomi in South Sudan could have fed themselves, their entire village, and the camera crew recording their poverty for over a year compared to the days worth of food my boys eat. World hunger is obviously no joke, yet I’m quite certain both my sons’ appetites and the monetary contributions we have spent on food items to satisfy their shameful hunger, can not be justified any other way.
The saddest part, both of my sons are thin as a rail. I’m actually considering them being tested for tape worm because this cannot be normal!
Kidding aside, I am deeply in love with and very dedicated to these Weird Harold’s who are smelly slobs with appetites I’ve never seen before. I gave them life and invested a lot of years, so I guess I have to continue my quest in raising these people to be more civilized. Let me tell you though, once they’re married, no longer my issue. Sorry dudes. Can’t say mommy didn’t try!