Unnatural Disasters

by Kimberly Ripley

Reprinted from Breathe Deeply, This Too Shall Pass: Thirty Tales of Trials and Tribulations of Parenting Teens by Kimberly Ripley

There is an area where the opposite sexes reign equal. Messy bedrooms. I've recently compared the natural habitats of my seventeen-year old daughter and fifteen-year old son. Both domains require the immediate action of a HazMat team.

On a recent weekend afternoon, I calmly quizzed my teens as to the conditions of their bedrooms.

"Clean," was one quick reply.

"Mine looks great," said the other.

Taking their words as truths, I went about my business of readying the house for our imminent arrivals, Gram and Gramps. The dusting, mopping, vacuuming, and de-cluttering complete, I allowed myself the brief solace of an overstuffed chair and glass of iced tea, but only momentarily. Shortly I resumed my patrol of our accommodations, and decided upon a thorough inspection of all quarters.

The living room and kitchen got exceptional scores. Appliances glistened, the carpet was lint-free, and I could see myself in the mirror. The bathrooms were positively sanitary, right down to the little man in my toilet tank. The younger children's bedrooms passed inspection, with dolls, blocks, videos, and Tonka trucks lined in neat rows. And then I entered the bedroom of teen #1.

My neighbor says she knows whenever I've subjected myself to this form of primitive torture.

"It's the only time I hear you swear," she says, from across the street. She jokes that she makes a notch on her kitchen doorframe every time this happens.

My daughter is tall, blonde, and actually quite beautiful. She never leaves the house unless meticulously groomed, stylishly dressed, and smelling like fruit. (Fruit is apparently very popular among scents for teens.) Her room is a complete oxymoron of the aforementioned assets.

Her room, in addition to housing my daughter and whichever girlfriends she hauls home for the evening, is also home to three large pet rats. The caged little darlings peer at me with their beady eyes, and slither their nasty tails at me each time I enter the room.

As they slithered and I ransacked, I was aware of their impervious aroma wafting throughout the supposedly "clean" bedroom. Their beady eyes watched me as I confiscated eleven half-finished bottles of caffeine-free Pepsi, eight damp bath towels, nine dirty socks, and more pairs of dirty undies than I could count. There was no partridge in a pear tree. She doesn't own a pear tree.

I found my black jacket, my full-length slip, my canvas handbag, and my reading glasses. I found school papers from the ninth grade. (She just graduated.)  I found unopened bills, parking tickets, overdue library notices, and enough college catalogs to outfit a guidance counselor's office. I found two types of gum, chewed and unchewed. I found love notes, Algebra notes, and band notes for her flute.

I ended up filling a laundry hamper, two garbage bags, and a peanut butter jar. (This was filled with the change I picked up from various spots around the room, a total of $12.62.)

Then, and only then could I begin cleaning.

Tired, ugly, sweaty, and sick of smelling rats, I sullenly descended the stairs leading to my fifteen-year old son's room. That was my second mistake of the day.

A toxic waste dump couldn't have been worse.

The Pepsi bottles in his sister's room looked and smelled like roses compared to this heap. The beady-eyed rats smelled like roses compared to this infested haven.

I found a glass of milk, that when held completely upside down, stayed in the glass. I found boxer shorts that were begging to be washed. I found half-eaten candy bars, cookies, and the remains of a fried egg. That plate wasn't worth saving. This child who claimed to never have anything to wear, actually owned an entire wardrobe of decent looking clothing. A colony of ants had taken up residence somewhere in the folded stacks, but if the milk didn't bother him, he probably regarded the ants as company.

I considered calling for a dumpster, but managed to hoe the room out and put the vile contents into trash bags, grocery bags, and two old plastic crates. Six trips up the stairs were required to dispose of the stuff. Tidy Boy returned home as I struggled with trip number six, stubbing my toe on the landing.

"I cleaned your room," I announced bitterly, revulsion oozing from my every word.

"Cool," he said. "But why?"

My neighbor made another notch on her kitchen doorframe.

The grandparents arrived, a little late as usual.

"We like to stop at the hamburger restaurant," Gramps always says. "We like the way you can order and eat right in your car."

"I like the free ketchup packages," Gram says. "I get extras every time and save them for later."

You'd think they never left the farm.

Our three-day visit is pleasant and full of reminiscing and laughs. On the day they leave, we gather for hugs and kisses, and Gram and Gramps always slip a little money into the kid's hands.

As soon as they leave, I corner the older kids and promptly hold out my hand to confiscate the loot.

"What do you mean, hand over the money?" my daughter whines.

"They gave it to us to spend," my son complains.

"When your room has remained in its present state for two weeks, I will return the cash," I say calmly.

I have accumulated a tidy, no pun intended, little nest egg.