Do you think Mary had to nag teen Jesus to the point of psychotic break just to get him to hang his wet towel on the bathroom hook installed by Joseph? We know the Savior at age twelve was feisty and independent-minded (remember the disappearing act for three days in the Temple…can you even imagine the parental anxiety?) But the Bible doesn’t mention whether a fifteen-year-old Prince of Peace navigated a slovenly phase.
Holy crappin’ crap, it somehow helps to think he did.
I’m aware teenagers are famous for their untidiness and that I’m in good company as a parent. But as a hotflashing mom of highschoolers right now—at times held hostage by fluctuating hormones—the slacking pushes me to the limit. Venting, cardio, and prescriptions help calm this hormonal midlife frenzy. Yep, pharmaceuticals sometimes work so well I am too mellow to battle these kids, and you might mistake me for Christ’s mother.
{Color me DELUDED. A blasphemous lie! Though often fatigued, I confess I am never too short on energy for a battle with inconsiderate teens.}
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 comeback 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. ‘Cause see, ‘beyond stanky’ is not an issue for him. “It’s all the years of nose spray,” L. 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 but has lost his senses of order and dignity. It’s shocking in light of his history as a saintly neatnick. He was one of those obsessive ‘put every crayon back in the box perfectly’ children who finger-pressed his fresh laundry. Then J. turned thirteen. We never saw Mr. Clean again.
Knowing full well the intensity of my OCD, approaching menopause, and desperate need for an uncluttered nest, the formerly tidy teen carelessly places his backpack as NEAR as physically possible to our hall closet without scooting it inside. This lack of courtesy might be forgivable were it not for the wicked supernatural phenomenon which then occurs—his cursed backpack camouflages itself on the hardwood floor exactly long enough for a dizzy-and-low-on- estrogen-mother-of-Christ-like-female to trip.
Do you know how long it takes a toenail to grow back? I’ll let you know.
I wasn’t always this irritable about clutter and chaos. There was a season when hormonally balanced and high on Windex, I whistled through housework. But that was when my kids were still crooning Barney's clean up song.
My current mood is the result of years of listening to the same three-word adolescent responses to my protests for more household help. “NOT MY FAULT” is second only in popularity to “STOP FREAKING OUT.” It's the result of years of torturous daily teen amnesia in the house. Turning off a running faucet after washing your hands? Far too complicated a request to fulfill during adolescence. My exasperation is the result of growing pathetically aware I have lowered the bar and feel so grateful these sons are rinsing their dirty paws, I simply turn off the tap behind them and don’t even complain about the amnesia.
{Grateful? Color me deluded again. Let’s be honest. Mary was grateful. I’m just too menopausally weary and sick of the sound of my own freakin voice to deal.}
Michele has a husband, two children, a master's in counseling and a blog at hellolovelychild.blogspot.com.
