Animal House

I've seen a lot of s*&% as a parent, but this summer my eyes, virgin to teenage boyhood, have been forced wide open, nearly blinding me by my own home's National Lampoon's 'Animal House' potential. My basement is not your frat house. With possibilities of destruction seemingly endless, my cool mom attitude butts up against the tough mother raising responsible adults. Sweet gooey hugs and the illusion of parental control seeming to vanish overnight like the soft moustache hair you shaved with your brand new razor last night.

Help yourselves to pizza and microwave anything; popcorn, burritos and free-range chicken nuggets are lunchtime staples in my home, along with snacks of Goldfish, chips, pretzels, apples, oranges, grapes, (a bonanza of bananas for your buddy with the midnight potassium cravings), and instant lemonade. I will sauté, grill, and bake my Betty Crocker butt off to satiate the hungriest army of growing children at our family dinner table! Your friends may check into our Airbnb for the night, stay up late and sleep until noon. You'll find me flipping chocolate chip banana pancakes on weekends to see your smiles. I love skateboarding and basketball in our street, and hearing your sweet harmonies practicing jazz songs to busk for cash in our hood. I am all too aware our years together are growing short and I cherish this busy household where I can ensure your safety. 

I desperately want your friends to consider our house their second home but I am not your maid. I charged $8 for the hour it took me to clean the basement last Thursday, vacuuming and sponging the sticky pancake syrup off the sleeping bag and (was it chocolate?) stain off the ottoman so your sister's friends could move in. Didn't I teach you to bring your dishes to the sink? There's a reason we stopped allowing drinks in our basement that wreaks a pungent aroma of lingering gym socks and whatever was spilled last week. I laughed when you argued you wanted to live in filth someday. Son, that's what college is for; my basement is not a frat house. 

Your 16-year-old sister detests cleaning your friend's freshly popped zits off her basement bathroom mirror splattered like a crime scene. Nor does she enjoy seeing her bath towel bunched up on the floor trying not to imagine what teenage boy's body part last touched it. She tells me she's scared to enter the dark kitchen past midnight when hunger strikes your ravenous friends. I'm fairly certain she's already packing her bags for college!

I am still shell-shocked by your friend drying his underwear with my hair dryer. Forever grateful you stopped me cold turkey before entering my own bathroom where your buddy, standing naked as a Jaybird armed only with my hair dryer, was drying his skivvies from swimming pool escapades. I cannot unsee the mental image etched in my brain though I applaud the outside the box thinking we desperately need to conserve energy and save the planet, one pair of grundies at a time! Apparently teen boys are above going commando in borrowed shorts for the time it takes to dry clothes in our clothes dryer. I am speechless.

As teenage boys, your ingenuity never ceases to amaze me, unfortunately your clever schemes detectable to this mother with spy skills who eyed the jagged glass in my 18x24 souvenir framed poster last week. I'm thankful you cleaned up the broken mess and even more grateful you owned the truth about your basement baseball game shattering world records and poster glass alike. Unfortunately, your buddy who fired the baseball pitch 'low-balled' his estimate, hairdryers aside, and Hobby Lobby charged double for new 18x24" glass and reframing. You always get in less trouble for telling the truth but I did not break the glass. I'm fairly certain the $50 price tag will minimize my risk of future catastrophe with the promise of future busking and lawn mowing. The ball's in your court to collect from your buddies and follow the rules. 

Forced to be on my parenting game 24/7, I realize it's possible to be both cool mom with an open door policy and boundary mom raising children with integrity above the irresponsible politicians who represent us. My newly cleaned basement post-teenage boy sleepover gives me hope for our country!

I'm convinced nothing will faze me by the time I survive raising four teenagers. In the meantime, I promise to provide swimming pool passes (and swim trunks), lodging, a smorgasbord of pantry and freezer selections, a clothes dryer, fresh towels, frequent carpools, and endless amounts of respect and love in return. Honestly, the years are too short to perfect my parenting skills but I'm pleased you keep me in the game!