Failure To Launch: The Prequel

Gage played his last football game Tuesday night… his team won 36-0. Undefeated, baby! As much fun as he’s had, he’s a little relieved it’s over. He was able to come home yesterday after school instead of having to practice, and to him that means an extra 2 1/2 hours to spend watching tv or playing Maple Story on the computer. To me that means an extra 2 1/2 hours of listening to him complain that there aren’t any good snacks in the house and that it’s not fair that he always has to do everything.

Huh?

Keep in mind that this is the same child that doesn’t like to empty the dishwasher because it makes “his hands tired” and who just last week called me into his bedroom to ask me to fix him a snack. Never mind the fact that I was busy folding laundry and trying to keep Ryerson from destroying the house… he was hungry.

I have given birth to one of the laziest children in America.

God bless him, I shouldn’t complain… he regularly brings home straight A report cards, he was nominated by “several” teachers for the Student Leadership Committee, and it isn’t very often that him and I argue (unlike Carter and I… I finally figured out the reason that him and I don’t always see eye to eye is because we’re so much alike it’s a bit scary. The biggest problem between Carter and I is the fact that both of us have to have the last word in any argument… the way I see it, I was never allowed to have the last word when I was growing up. Now that I’m older and I have kids of my own, I’ve EARNED the right to have the last word, dammit! By the time we’re finished arguing- which usually ends with both of us yelling “FINE!” at the same time- I usually can’t remember what we were fighting about in the first place).

He’s a great kid, all three of them are… he’s just lazy sometimes. My biggest fear is the fact that he’ll realize one day that being independent and on his own is way overrated and he’ll never leave. I can’t say that I’m worried that Mark and I will have nothing to talk when we’re older (trust me… that’s not gonna happen) and I don’t think Mark has ever dreamed of hanging out all day in a naked room (if he does, then I’m moving out) once the kids are out of the house, but that doesn’t mean I want to spend the rest of my life making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and reminding him that the hamper is just outside the bathroom door, not on the floor of his bedroom.

I wish I could blame his laziness on his age, but I would totally be lying. When Mark was traveling 2 weeks out of every month 3ish years ago (it was then I gained a new respect for single mothers… while I’ve always had a tremendous amount of respect for single mothers, it wasn’t until then that I had to restrain myself from throwing myself at their feet and asking them, “How in the hell do you do this every day without losing your mind? TELL ME!”) I looked forward to every other week without having him home as I might a pap smear or another season of “The Hills”.

I hated it.

I can’t complain about Mark the way I’ve heard other women complain about their husbands… he does help out quite a bit and I do notice when he’s gone. When he asks me if I need any help around the house, he may occasionally do so grudgingly, but he does ask, and that’s more than I can say for some. Anyway, one week while he was gone I made the mistake of deciding to paint the kitchen. By the time the kids had gotten home from school I was finished, but I spent the rest of the night making up for everything I hadn’t done during the day because I was, well… painting the kitchen. After convincing Gage it was time to take a shower, I went ahead and started packing backpacks, making lunches, and trying to pick up the the mess they had made in the few short hours they had been home.

“MOOOOOOM!!!”

“WHAT?”

“Can you come here?”

“Gage, I’m busy. What do you need? Can’t it wait until AFTER you’re done with your shower?”

“Just come here.”

I put down whatever it was I was doing and when I tried opening the bathroom door… it was locked. Dammit.

“Gage, the door is locked… I don’t have time for this. Unless you’re bleeding profusely or discovered the meaning of life written on the back of a shampoo bottle, I don’t wanna hear it. Just wait until you’re out of the shower.”

I went back to what I was doing and a few minutes later I heard him get out of the shower and unlock the door.

“MOOOOM! I UNLOCKED THE DOOR, WILL YOU COME HERE A MINUTE?”

You’ve gotta be kidding me.

I went into the bathroom and asked him through gritted teeth what he wanted.

“Will you pour me a glass of water?”

I. Saw. Red. The irony of the situation didn’t escape my notice… he had passed the sink, complete with drinking glass, on his way to unlock the door.

“Are you out of your mind? Is this what you called me in her for?”

“But I’m really thirsty.”

Things haven’t changed much since then, obviously. While he may ask me for things he’s perfectly capable of doing so himself, he does so with a look of trepidation that by asking me to pour him a glass of Kool-Ade when he’s standing 3 feet away from the refrigerator is going to cause my head to explode… yet he still does it.

One of these days my head is going to explode… and I’m going to make him clean up the mess.