Holy Teen Slackers
A Rant for Parents Living With the Unclean.
by Michele Ranard, M.Ed.
600 words
(First published in "My Life as a Parent" in Parentwise Austin)
Think Mary had to nag teen Jesus to the point of psychotic break to get him
to hang his wet towel on the bathroom hook installed by Joseph? I mean, we know
the Savior at twelve was feisty and independent-minded (remember his little
disappearing act for three days in the Temple? Can you even imagine the level
of parental anxiety and amber alerts?).
The
Bible doesn’t mention whether the fifteen-year-old Prince of Peace navigated a
slovenly phase. But it somehow helps to think he did.
I
am fully aware teenagers are famous for their untidiness and that I’m in good
company as a parent. But as a hotflashing mom of highschoolers, their slacking
pushes me to the limit. Sure, venting, cardio, and prescriptions help calm my
hormonal midlife frenzy—in fact, pharmaceuticals work such magic that at times
I am too mellow to battle these kids and you might actually mistake me for
Christ’s mother. (A blasphemous lie! Though often fatigued, I confess I am
never too short on energy to battle an inconsiderate teen.)
The
other day I confronted our son L. “You need to clean this room immediately! How
could you possibly stand to live like this?”
L.
earnestly responded with the ridiculous explanation he always delivers. “I
really like to be able to see all my stuff.”
When
I pointed out the ‘perspiration and garlic’ odor emanating from the space, he
reassured me that ‘beyond stanky’ is not an issue for him. “It’s all those
years of nose spray,” he sincerely explained. “Can’t smell a thing.”
Leave
it to a teen to paint chronic sinusitis and the abuse of decongestants as
blessings in disguise.
My
younger son J. can still smell; he’s simply lost his senses of order and
dignity. It’s shocking in light of his history as a saintly neatnick. He was
one of those religiously obsessive ‘put every crayon back in the box perfectly’
children who finger-pressed his fresh laundry. Then J. turned thirteen.
We
never heard from Mr. Clean again.
Although he knows full well about my approaching menopause and the
biblical intensity of my OCD, everyday this formerly tidy teen scorns me. He sinfully
tosses his backpack on the floor, as near as physically possible to our hall
closet, without scooting it inside where it belongs.
This
lack of courtesy might be forgivable were it not for the unrighteous
supernatural phenomenon which inevitably follows: that cursed backpack
camouflages itself on the hardwood floor precisely long enough for a
dizzy-and-estrogenic-mother-of-Christ-like-female to trip on it.
Do
you know how long it takes a toenail to grow back? I’ll let you know.
I
wasn’t always so hell, fire, and brimstone about clutter and chaos. There was a
season when, hormonally balanced and high on Windex, I whistled through
housework. That was also the season the kids were still singing the gospel of
Barney's clean up song. (Everybody do your share. Ha!)
My
current ranting and raving is the result of years of listening to the same
three-word adolescent responses to my impassioned protests for more household
help: “NOT MY FAULT” is second only in popularity to “STOP FREAKING OUT.”
I’ve
grown pathetically aware that I have drastically lowered the cleanliness bar
lately. Yep. Now I am just so grateful
whenever my sons rinse their dirty paws before eating that I simply turn off
the tap when they lazily forget. I don’t complain about their selective memory
loss for closing drawers either.
(Blasphemy
again! Let’s be honest: Mary was grateful. I’m just too menopausally weary and
sick to death of my own freakin voice to deal.)
Michele Ranard is probably not as obnoxious as she paints herself. She has a husband, two children, and a master’s in counseling.
*image above by sheknows.com
