Domestic Dramedy: Mom Life with a Teen Son and a Man-Child Husband

There is a very specific kind of exhaustion that comes from being the only female living with two males. One is a teenager. The other is a full-grown man who still occasionally operates like a raccoon with confidence and a to-do list he may or may not ever finish. 

Lately, Spencer has added a brand-new twist to the chaos. Almost overnight, this child went from not caring one bit about hair or clothes to suddenly having opinions. Now he wants a “real man barber,” and he has informed me that before I buy him clothes, I need to check with him first because he has his own style. 

But the part that really got me was why. 

He knows money does not grow on trees, and he understands we cannot just go redo his whole wardrobe right now. So when he said, “When it’s time for new clothes, just check with me first,” it was actually really thoughtful. It was his way of saying he gets that we buy what we need, when we need it, and not just for fun. 

And yes, that was sweet. 

Of course, thoughtful did not stop me from getting talked into buying him sea salt spray from Based. 

Sea salt spray. 

Y’all, it feels like I paid for fancy salt water in a bottle, and somehow I still bought it because my son had hair goals and I am apparently weak. 

Meanwhile, this same child still struggles with taking a proper shower, brushing his teeth like he means it, keeping his braces clean, and using hangers like a civilized person. His trash can is right beside his bed, yet the trash and soda cans still end up on the floor. 

Why? 
Why is the floor their final resting place? 

The other day, Spencer and I both stood in his room looking at Pringle crumbs on the carpet. I know he saw them. He knows he saw them. The good Lord knows he saw them. And this child had the audacity to say he saw nothing. 

Nothing. 

Sir, there are visible crumbs at your feet. This is not a mystery. We do not need a detective. 

I handed him the small vacuum. 
As of right now, that vacuum is still waiting to be chosen. 

Then there is Scott. 

Now Scott is Scott. Dreamer. Starter. Big ideas. Crazy ideas. Great ideas, honestly. 

Finisher? Still under construction. 

Living with Scott means constantly being reminded that while I believe every item should be returned to its proper place immediately, he believes things should remain wherever he last touched them until further notice. 

In this house, dirty clothes apparently cannot be expected to travel all the way to the hamper and instead get abandoned on the shelf next to the bed. Empty hangers get shoved at the top of the closet, where semi-short me cannot reach them without first catching an attitude. 

When I ask for the trash to be taken out, and when the trash actually gets taken out, those are two completely different points on the timeline. 

And I am still waiting on the water and Gatorade to make their way into the drink fridge. It has been days since I got the confident, “Yeah, I’ll do it.” 

Scott’s side of the couch stays looking like a dad-themed lost and found. Work papers, hats, glasses, a computer mouse, and assorted man stuff just live there now. At this very moment, it is 7 p.m., and I am staring at a bottle of ketchup he used for his fries at lunch. 

The ketchup is still sitting on the bottom tier of the coffee table like it pays rent. 

And the minute I straighten the top and make it look nice, here comes the coffee cup, the medicine bottles, and Lord only knows what else to reclaim the space. 

But to be fair, even though he drives me completely bonkers, Scott does a lot of little things that probably do not get appreciated enough. He takes my plate to the kitchen when we are done eating. I did not say he washed it or cleaned the kitchen, but he did take it. He gets me snacks without judgment, which is true love when your wife wants enough cheese to concern a cardiologist. He carries the heavy stuff, always unloads the groceries, and is usually the first one jumping in when something needs muscle. 

So no, he is not all chaos and clutter. 

He is also thoughtful, helpful, and good at taking care of the things I cannot or do not want to lift, drag, haul, or wrestle with. 

Now, before anybody starts thinking I am the organized queen in the middle of all this male dysfunction, let me go ahead and humble myself. 

I am not easy to live with either. 

The things that drive Spencer insane are probably not hard to guess. I am constantly on him about schoolwork, brushing his teeth properly, cleaning his braces, taking a real shower, and keeping his room from looking like a low-budget convenience store exploded in it. In my mind, this is called parenting. In his mind, this is harassment. 

And honestly, I get it. 

As for Scott, I know exactly what makes him crazy. I have very little patience. If I ask for something, I am not putting it on a flexible timeline for future review. I mean now. I run on my timeline and then get irritated when everybody else is apparently living in a different time zone. I also know I do not always see the forest for the trees. I can get so focused on the immediate mess, stress, or problem right in front of me that I miss the bigger picture. 

And if I am stressed, everybody knows it. 

I do not tuck it away quietly and go journal with a candle. I wear it right out in the open on my face, in my voice, and in the way I stomp from one room to the next. I think I am being realistic. They probably think I am auditioning for the role of Debbie Downer: Household Manager Edition. 

Also, I am constantly putting things away in a safe place and then immediately forgetting where that safe place was, so I am not exactly running a flawless operation over here either. 

I see dust, dirt, clutter, and junk, and my whole body goes on alert. 
They see comfort. 
They see livable. 
They see “it’s fine.” 

I see a problem forming. 

So yes, I may occasionally turn into some kind of crazy Batman-sounding mom, stomping through the house and asking why nobody can put anything back where it belongs. 

For all my stomping, sighing, and crazy Batman-mom speeches, I know this house is still a gift. God gave me these two, clutter and all. And somewhere between the sea salt spray, the Pringle crumbs, the half-finished projects, and the ketchup bottle on the coffee table, He is teaching me that love is not found in perfection. It is found in showing up, cleaning up, speaking up, laughing anyway, and giving grace even when nobody has used the hamper. 

So this is life in my house. 
One boy growing into himself enough to care about style and wise enough to understand we cannot redo his whole wardrobe all at once, while still somehow being blind to crumbs on the carpet. 
One man-child leaving a trail of ketchup, papers, hangers, and unfinished intentions behind him while also hauling the heavy stuff and bringing me snacks. 
And me, the only female in the middle of it all, nagging, stressing, pushing, tidying, and trying to keep the whole thing from turning into a free-range storage unit. 

It is not calm. 
It is not neat. 
It is rarely on schedule. 

But it is mine. And by the grace of God, so are they. 

And that, in a nutshell, is Domestic Dramedy. 

I would love to report that the ketchup has made it back to the kitchen, but that would be false.