There’s something about a stinky boy and his mom…

Boys stink.

Not literally. Well, sometimes literally, but… you probably know what I mean.

I love boys. 

Go figure.

I especially love my very own stinky beautiful boy who has been home this past week for the Thanksgiving holiday. Sadly, and rather pathetically,  I pretty much reverted back to treating him as if he were a five-year-old. 

Even though I mostly saw him in the form of a blur. 

A stinky blur, but a most wonderful stinky busy beautiful blur nonetheless.  

life coach, moms and their sons,

I once did one of my famous mathematical equations to try to show my son how much I love him.

mathematical proof that I love my stinky boy A LOT!

Epic fail.

He didn’t get it.

But he pretended to. 

So, this time when he came home, I tried not to hover, I really did.

But it came out all wrong.  Instead of asking him what he thought the chances were that Newt Gingrich could become president, or his take on the collective bargaining process in the basketball and baseball labor disputes, I asked him stuff like: 

Son, did you brush your teeth?

Son, are you coming home for dinner?

Yo, Mister, just a not-so-gentle reminder to put your dirty clothes in the hamper instead of on top of the refrigerator!

Sweet boy, can you do your impersonation of Jim Carrey for me for the thousandth time before you run out the door so I can laugh ’til I cry because you are so darn funny? 

And yes, I did his laundry. Even though I said I wouldn’t. I fell for that boyish charm like a dog salivating over a T-bone. 

moms and laundry

Chewy, the world’s worst dog, started giving me dirty looks. 

Especially when I caught myself cutting the stinky boy’s food.


Because I’m pretty sure Two has learned how to use a knife and a fork. And as far as I can tell, he has all of his adult teeth by now.

Well. Sort of. 

Just before coming home he called me from college, in that brace -yourself-Mom voice that tells me something’s up. (As opposed to the one he uses when he’s trying to suck up before asking for a loan, as in, “after we have this conversation and you give me the money, let’s pretend it never happened.”)

Except I knew this conversation wasn’t going to be about money. 

Mom, I chipped my tooth. 

No. No way. I don’t believe it. Not again. That cannot be possible. Fourth chip. OFF THE SAME TOOTH.

Shouldn’t we be past the stinky-boy-chips-his-tooth stage by now??????????? 

I refused to believe him. I thought perhaps this was a rather innovative, albeit dastardly  way to try to swindle a few extra bucks out of one’s doting, gullible, pathetic mother. 

So he sent me a picture.


It was chipped alright.  And darn if it didn’t make him look EXACTLY like Jim Carrey! 

Jim Carrey

I recall asking my mom, (back when Number 2 chipped his tooth the first time when he was in second grade), how old he’d be before I could stop worrying and fussing and hovering over him.

She just laughed. 

All these years later, I’m still worrying and fussing and hovering. 

And I know better. You’d think. 

And my mom is still laughing. 

Now that really stinks.