My Puberty Lament
My eldest minion is going to be my topic of my rant this week. He turned 12 this year and with this milestone instantly grew a bad attitude, a wagging tongue, and an annoying ability to torment everybody in his presence. When I say instantly, I mean at the very moment that the clock struck 9:30 (the minute of his screaming arrival into this world) his face permanently contorted into a sour and disgruntled pucker.

As I have mentioned before, I have been suffering from a toddler-induced injury. This injury resulted in initial six weeks of prescribed recovery time, which inflated to 8 weeks and a visit to a specialist, which then expanded to several months of steroids and physical therapy, and finally an invasive surgery that minimally required 10 weeks of excruciating opiate-embracing recovery. The combination of a whirlwind toddler, two tornado gradeschoolers, one clothes horse princess, and two pre-teen slugs, has resulted in a crust of child-produced unidentified filth on top of a cushy nougat of laundry and toys, which merely masks a layer of dust due to the minimal performance of sweeping or vacuuming that has been done since....well last October.

So, in evaluating the wretched bog of mess that has replaced my mildly chaotic house over the past six months, I came to a conclusion. The biggest breakdown in the hygienic maintenance of our house is in the portions that are maintained by my eldest son. Most of our jobs rotate weekly, but I concluded that it was not fair or just for the person who washes to the dishes to leave a large mess for their successor, so the rule was established that the dishes must be done to completion before the job was given to the next child. My second son took the first rotation and completed the job with a smile and shining results. My daughter took the next shift, with a bit more coaching, but again a positive result. It has been NINE MONTHS of unsuccessful dish washing for my eldest. He is the most focused and determined child that I know, but when he stands in front of the kitchen sink with a basin of suds, he suddenly has an attention span issue. His typical dishwasher load consists of four bowls, a couple of cups, a pot, three ladles, and NO SILVERWARE (apparently he deems flatware as an unnecessary luxury). He also chooses not to rinse or remove any food from the dishes before he tosses them haphazardly into their places, so usually his successful dish washing skills yield ONE clean ladle. One ladle falls laughably short of being able to feed a family of eight, however I have developed many wonderful soup recipes as a result.

I have concluded that the symptoms of puberty include, oily skin, bad attitude, and a complete breakdown in the understanding of logic. Talking to my eldest child, who until several months ago was an easily reasoned with child, is like reasoning with my dog complete with the head cock and puzzled expression. I have decided that this is to allow the demons in his head to speak to him before he launches into his tirade of nonsensical garbage.

Each child is also given one permanent job. One child keeps the table clear (or relatively so), one child is in charge of taking out the garbage and does so with relative regularity, one child is in charge of wiping of the main community counter (which is hidden under a mountain of tall dishes, minus one ladle). My eldest minion is in charge of carrying and compiling the three baskets of laundry upstairs and transporting them down to the facilities in the basement. As I mentioned before, the majority of our cushy nougat is dirty laundry, therefore I broached the conversation with him.

Me: “Eldest Minion, it has come to my attention that the majority of the thick blanket of clutter upstairs is due to dirty laundry, is there a reason that you have neglected taking it downstairs for the past six months?”

E.M.: “Um....(sour scowl with a slight twitch of resentment around his nose) because there are just too many clothes to carry down. This really is a four-man job and you are asking far too much of my battered and abused body. You are the cruelest mother ever. Nobody else I know has to gather laundry to be washed, their parents buy them magical clothes that fly into the hamper and wash themselves and then teleport neatly folded back into their drawers instantly.”

Me: “May I also ask why you haven't changed your shirt in the past four days, despite nagging promptings?”

E.M.: “Because you threw away ALL of our clothes but this one measly, moth-eaten T-shirt and I therefore have to clothes no change into.” (I am doing some decluttering.) Which this is where I begin to assert that puberty blocks logical thought.
Me: “Then you should have plenty of room in plenty of baskets to get all of the meager laundry downstairs, right?” (Crickets chirp)

The problems extend beyond a resistance to doing housework. The complaints and lemon-sucking expressions extend to every portion of his life. He has a constant low-grade grumbling/mumbling throughout his day. “Stupid sun being so hot and the stupid air conditioner for being so cold. Why can't the world just be the right temperature for me?” “Stupid gravity attacking me when I am riding my bike recklessly.” “Stupid bladder for interrupting my play with the urge to pee.” It is like an unrelenting soundtrack to my life now.

My question is, if we can have a light that warns us when we are going to run out of gas, an alarm that warns us if the house is on fire, a blaring siren that warns us that someone is attempting to break into our home, can't we have some sort of alarm to warn us that puberty and hormonal insanity is descending upon us? I was caught completely off guard. If I had some sort of emergency puberty broadcasting warning, I would have bought some sort of body armor and ear plugs or something.