This weekend, we’ll be taking a short trip with the boys. Joe and Luke are excited because we’re taking them out of school for a day. Hubby is excited because the trip is mainly an excuse for him to take photos. I’m excited because I have a personal rule that I must leave the state once every four months, and it’s time for me to get out of Dodge.

I was upstairs tonight contemplating all I need to do before we leave. The list was long and mind-numbingly dull. Then, it hit me. I can divvy out my laundry list of chores. I thought about the packing. I’ve never packed for Steve, but I do usually pack for the boys. Steve always manages to pack about 400 pairs of underpants and socks, but then will forget to bring something crucial, like pants. I figure that he’s a grown up, though, so I leave him to his own devices. I do not, however, want my boys packing like their father does. So, I determined that it was finally time to teach them how to do their own packing.

“Boys…come up here, please,” I bellowed downstairs.

Noisy chaos continued unabated. I yelled again.

“Guys…I need you to do something for me. Come up!”

Still no response. It once again appeared I was talking to myself, and it was the most intelligent conversation I’d had with them all day. When they finally figured out that my caterwauling was directed at them and came up, I handed them each a packing list. I figured that was a basic enough way to start the process.

“Here you go. You are going to pick out your own clothes for the trip. This is the list of all the things you will need. Please select the clothes carefully from your drawer and stack them neatly in a pile. Try to remember that the clothes you select should match each other, okay? These are the only clothes you will have all weekend, so make sure you like what you pick out because once we leave you’re stuck.”

I sent them on their merry way. I was feeling rather smug about it too. When they had finished, I did a quick check to make sure all items were accounted for and coordinated. Sure enough. It looked good. I was pleased. I tossed their clothes into the suitcase. Next time I will have them make their own packing lists first for practice. I figure if we keep going at this current rate of travel, they should both be excellent at packing by the time they’re 14 and 12. Then I won’t have to think about it at all. And, who knows? Maybe then they’ll teach their father how to pack.

The boys were upstairs being quite giggly earlier today. I love it when they’re having fun and laughing together. We’re lucky that it happens quite often with our two little monkeys because they honestly like each other. When I hear them both carrying on, no matter how loudly, with their happy, non-stop chattering, I feel good.

Today, though, something different was going on. I could tell there was something somewhat secretive about whatever it was they were doing upstairs. Still, heartened by their laughter and the joy they were obviously sharing, I let them continue. At one point, though, my curiosity began to get the best of me and I started up the stairs. Hearing my footsteps, they got very quiet, which made me a bit suspicious.

“Mom?” Joe called.

“Yeah?” I replied from halfway up the stairs.

“Don’t come up here,” he called down.

“Ummm…why?” I queried, becoming even more suspicious. Then I heard Luke yell to Joe.

“Close the door, Joe. Quick.”

“Why do you have to close the door exactly?” I wondered aloud.

“Don’t come up here, Mom. We’re having a farting contest in Joe’s room. It’s gross in here.”

Ewwwwww. Seriously? That was all I had to hear. I started back downstairs. Boys are so disgusting. I went back to the kitchen to finish my lunch, trying not to think of the foulness being perpetrated upstairs.

After about 15 minutes, though, I noticed it was very quiet. This could only mean one of two things…either they were doing something they weren’t supposed to be or the noxious fumes from their farts had rendered them unconscious. I sneaked back upstairs and stood outside the door to Joe’s room. It was quiet except for the sound of their computer. I had asked them earlier to stay off the computer for a while because they’d spent part of the morning watching Lego videos. I carefully turned the doorknob and peeked inside the room. There they were…co-conspirators, huddled together sharing one chair and, sure enough, watching more Lego videos that they weren’t supposed to be watching. Oddly enough, the Lego characters were either speaking Polish or Czech, which just cracked me up.

“WHAT are you doing?” I said a little too loudly. They both jumped, surprised and chagrined to have been caught in the act.

“We’re watching Lego videos,” Luke admitted.

“What did I say about spending too much time on YouTube today?”

“Sorry, Mom,” Joe said.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “I thought you said  you were having farting contests up here.”

“We just said that to keep you out of here,” Joe explained, honest to a fault.

Nice. I wasn’t sure if I should yell at them or congratulate them for their clever ruse. It had worked. They got themselves an extra 15 minutes of clandestine YouTube time with that false statement. I told them to close Safari and get downstairs. They walked past me rather quickly, fearful I might swat them as they passed by.

Truth be told, I’m rather disappointed in myself for falling for a “farting contest” story. What was I thinking? My boys are gross, but they’re not really that gross, at least not yet. It was a bit naive of me to believe that line. I hope, however, that my boys understand that their obfuscations and lies will have to become more clever in the future because I now see the game they’re playing at. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, well…I’m just not that stupid.

Tonight, Joe was in a mood. Why? Because I refused to pay $2 for him to breed some imaginary creature in DragonVale. The impetus for buying Joe an iPad in the first place was to help him with his studies. For a while, he was great about doing both spelling and math apps with it. We loved that he spent hours on Google Earth. Bit by bit, though, he started getting more into gaming apps and spending less time on the educational apps. Next thing I knew, he was asking me to check on his Tiny Zoo, feed his make-believe fish, and buy him dragons. Seriously? Is this what it has come to? Now I’m an app lackey in addition to being Laundry Queen and Head Chef?

After I told Joe I would not be putting in our iTunes password to purchase a sack of imaginary gems for his dragon breeding, he had something of a meltdown. I sent him to his room. Soon, Luke came down with a report.

“Joe is really sad, I think.”

“Yep. I told him I wasn’t buying him any dragon gems.”

“Well, I thought you should know he’s hatching a plan to figure out your password so he can still get them,” he tattled.

“He is, huh? Thanks for the report, lieutenant.” I saluted him.

I went upstairs into their room and Joe was not on his bed. I called his name. A noise emanated from under the bed. Yep. My nearly 11 year old son, livid at his unwavering mother, had crawled under the bunk bed in protest. I laughed to myself and then got flat on my belly next to the bed to confront him.

“So…you were going to use my password to get your gems anyway, huh?”

“NOOOOOOOO!” came the reply, which was followed in rapid succession by the confession. “I couldn’t figure it out anyway.”

“Uh huh. You realize that if you EVER input our password to purchase something without our approval we will consider it theft. At that point, your iPad will become MY iPad.”

“I didn’t steal. I told you. I couldn’t figure out the password. I just typed in a bunch of G’s, but that’s not it.”

“No. That isn’t it. So, you do admit that you tried to steal?” I inquired.

“No. I told you. It didn’t work,” he said, exasperated with me.

“But you were planning to go behind our backs and do what we told you not to. That is a problem.”

“If you would just give me the $2 (my mind immediately went to Better Off Dead), I wouldn’t have to be sneaky.”

“Well,” I replied, “I said no. That’s my final answer, and it’s not up for discussion.” And, with that, I left the room.

As I was leaving he said, “I took you off my text messaging list. I’m not sending you any more messages, Mom. Ever.”

“Nice try, sweetie. But you know I don’t negotiate with terrorists. I’ll miss your texts, but my texts from my other friends will get me through.” (Mean, I know. But he has to know that he can’t get to me that way, even if he did just a little with that comment.)

I know he’s mad at me now, but he’ll get over it. In time he’ll learn that his terrorist tactics are a waste of his time with me. I’ve been the target of these attacks for years now and I’ve acquired some skill in handling them. Don’t tell him, but I’m secretly impressed by his attempts at coercion and blackmail. He’s good; he’s just not as good as me.

Last night our boys decided they no longer wanted the flannel sheets on their beds. We were downstairs cleaning up after our Easter festivities and, unbeknownst to us, they stripped the bedding off their bunk bed and then called me up to fix their problem. When I got upstairs, their entire bedroom floor was covered in blankets, dirty sheets, stuffed animals, and confusion. I was exhausted and annoyed.

I got out the regular cotton sheets for their beds, tossed them at the boys, and told them to get busy making their beds before I stomped out of the room. Five minutes later I went back to check on them, and they were still clueless. Nothing in the room had changed. I’ve shown my boys repeatedly how to change their sheets, but clearly they have not been paying attention. So, I stood over them barking directions, trying to get them to finish their own task. They labored mightily. They could not get it together. About 9:45 when the beds still weren’t ready for sleep, I decided the quickest path to rest for all of us was for me to take over. So I did. I finished what they had started and we were all asleep by 10:30. I knew that doing their work for them only encourages them to call me to fix their problems, but I was too tired to care.

This morning when the boys busted into my room at 7 a.m. on their day off, still reeling from the bed fiasco last night, I told them to hang around for a minute. I had my second wind and I was ready to be patient. I hauled my butt out of bed.

“You need to make my bed,” I said, still sleepy.

“What?”came the response, times two.

“You heard me. You’re making my bed today.”

“Is this because of last night?” Joe inquired. “Is this my punishment?”

“Oh, sweetie. It’s not a punishment. It’s an opportunity.”

So, I stood there and I let them struggle with the sheets and the comforter. I gave them tips but allowed them to do it all themselves. I coached and encouraged. I told them how to stack the pillows. When it was all said and done, my bed was made and I hadn’t touched it. I felt like Samantha on Bewitched. A little twitch of my nose and the housework was finished. It was a watershed moment. They’re learning to be self-sufficient. I was proud. I was pleased with them but more so with myself for letting go of the reins and giving them control. I felt powerful. So powerful, in fact, that I folded some laundry and had them put it away themselves. Then, I sent them make their own beds because practice makes perfect.

Wonder what I can have them do tomorrow? The more work I have them do in my house now, the less I think they’ll want to live here when they’re 25. If you feather the nest too nicely, they’ll never fly. If I know one thing for sure, it’s that I don’t want to be doing their laundry 15 years from now.