Holy Teen Slackers

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 twelve was feisty and independent-minded (remember that little disappearing act for three days in the Temple…can you even imagine the parental anxiety?). But the Bible doesn’t mention whether the fifteen-year-old Prince of Peace navigated a slovenly phase.
 
It somehow helps to think he did.

I am 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 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: ‘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 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 intensity of my OCD, this 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: that 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 so irritable about clutter and chaos. There was a season when, hormonally balanced and high on Windex, I whistled through housework. That was also the season 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.”

I’ve grown pathetically aware that I have lowered the cleanliness bar. Now I just feel so grateful when my sons rinse their dirty paws that I simply turn off the tap when they forget and don’t even complain about their memory loss.

(Blasphemy again! Or maybe just an outright lie: Let’s be honest: Mary was grateful. I’m just menopausally weary and sick to death of my own freakin voice to deal.)