Here Lie His Pants

Did you see the headline saying science shows that mothers of boys live shorter, more horrible lives, or something? I didn’t read it. I didn’t have time. I not only have two boys, one of whom is a teenager, but I have three other teenagers, and will soon have a total of five teenagers living under our roof.

Five. When people hear that information, they often wince or groan. Heck, sometimes that wincing, groaning person is me. And sometimes it’s the teenagers, because they have to live with me, me, if you can imagine such a thing.

But sometimes — even most of the time — I truly love having a herd of teenagers under the roof. They are tons of fun to talk to, when they feel like talking. They are (more or less) good to their younger siblings, and do the fun, silly, energetic things I used to do before I turned into a wincing, groaning, enervated laptop-bound hag. They cook (sometimes). They clean (sometimes). They stick up for each other (most of the time).  They organize parties, bring weird new music and games into the house, and generally (sometimes) (most of the time) make me feel more hopeful about what kind of world it will be in the next few decades.

And they can be incredibly gracious, in their own weird way. My poor son, who goes to bed one height and wakes up three inches taller, keeps growing out of his clothes. I keep promising him we’ll go shopping, and I keep forgetting.

Some kids would nag or whine or pester, but not at our house! The photo above is what I found on top of the kitchen garbage when I stumbled toward the coffee machine. As you can see, it’s the remains of a funeral. A funeral for pants. The sign says: “HERE LIES MY PANTS. A good and loyal friend. RIP”

Good and loyal friend indeed. Now we need to talk about how lonely the shower feels without the company of a good and loyal friend like him.


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