I could do without ever again stepping in a splash of forgotten, cold piss on the bathroom floor, ruining a perfectly good pair of socks. I would not miss entering the bathroom and have my nose involuntarily wrinkle in offence, without having to look into the bowl of the toilet to see whatever in God’s name was left behind and someone was too lazy to deal with.
I imagine the day I can snuggle up in a cozy, soft throw left on the sofa to find it as clean as I left it, instead of discovering the smears of filth as it was used as a napkin to wipe dirty hands on, or even better, as a convenient tissue for runny noses. I am tired of the smell of stale sweat, stinky sneakers and dirty underwear; of telling adult sized children to clip their toenails, clean their fingernails and to wipe the scum off of their mouth.
The reality of living in a frat house, with hormonal teenage boys, is not as fun as it sounds in theory. I am not saying I am looking forward to them leaving home, because I am, as it’s a right of passage and a sign of parental success. I will however, miss them terribly because as much as they disgust me at times, they compensate for it by making me laugh at the things they say and do. I still endeavor to teach them to be responsible men, knowing that I will send them off to future partners having done as much as I could, in the time I had them.
The rest of their practical ‘house training’ will have to come through the sexual motivation of trying to please a partner, in exchange for sex. Twenty years is not enough time for the mother of a male animal offspring, to make them pleasant to live with. It’s not like I enable their bad behaviour but it is hard for me to completely let go enough for them to live in filth and disorganization while they are under my roof.
And seeing their reaction when I make them a 12 inch submarine sandwich and bring it to their room as a snack, along with a few chocolate chip cookies I just took out of the oven, is hard for me to stop doing because I get to mother hen them and get a Christmas morning reaction to the unexpected thing I just surprised them with. It’s almost as hard to stop doing as babying them when they are sick; when I get to rub their backs and stoke their hair as they sip on the chicken noodle soup I made them.
When they are not feeling well, their fledgling independence reverts back to the point where once again they are my little boys and while I certainly want them to feel better quickly, I don’t want it to be “too” quickly as I have to secretly admit enjoying being able to go overboard, in taking care of them. I won’t always be able to once they move out on their own, so I am happy that I can, while I still have them.