My teenage son lives in the basement.

I live upstairs, where I occasionally enjoy pretending I don’t know what’s happening in the basement.

This arrangement works beautifully until I need to go downstairs.

Sometimes I’ll be having a perfectly decent day and think, I should probably check his room.

Then I think, Why? You were just happy.

I’m raising four kids, and I’d like to formally apologize for any parenting opinions I held before becoming a mother. That woman had some lovely theories about consistency and personal responsibility.

Bless her well-rested little heart.

These days, I’m learning that you can love someone with your whole heart and still wonder why they live like they’re waiting for housekeeping.

Life Below Stairs

I rarely go into the basement because I know I’ll get frustrated the second I see how dirty it is. He, meanwhile, appears perfectly comfortable.

There are clothes on the floor, because apparently that is where clothes belong. Clean clothes. Dirty clothes. Clothes whose status can no longer be determined.

We own a dresser. We have hangers. There are options.

He has chosen the floor.

I suppose putting everything away would interfere with his ability to see his entire wardrobe at once. Why open a drawer when you can simply survey the landscape?

Eventually, I bring up laundry, and we encounter another mystery: he apparently doesn’t know how to do it.

I have shown him approximately a million times.

The washing machine has not changed, honey. Same machine. Same buttons. Same general concept.

He can navigate a video game with confidence, but a normal wash cycle requires technical support. I’ve become the household help desk, and my only customer refuses to retain information.

The clothes are only what I can see at first glance. For the full picture, I have to wait until summer camp.

Every summer, he goes off to make memories, and I go downstairs to find evidence.

He is not supposed to eat in the basement. This is an established rule, delivered in a language we both speak.

And yet, the candy wrappers.

So many candy wrappers.

Apparently, a small concession stand has been operating underneath my house.

While I’m recovering the remains of snacks he wasn’t supposed to eat down there, I also find his siblings’ belongings. The things they’ve been looking for. The things he swore he couldn’t find.

Well, goodness gracious. Here they are.

I’m not saying he deliberately took every missing item. I am saying we should search the basement before spending money on replacements.

Next summer, I should send a family announcement:

“If you’re missing anything, please submit your claim before excavation begins.”

You’d think finding a small civilization’s worth of laundry, wrappers, and missing property would be enough excitement for one mother.

Unfortunately, the basement also has a bathroom.

An Hour in the Shower, a Lake on the Floor

My son takes hour-long showers.

An hour.

No joke.

I don’t know what requires sixty minutes. Are we washing one hair at a time? Waiting for inspiration? Is there a second shift I don’t know about?

Meanwhile, I’m upstairs thinking about the water bill.

And somehow, after spending an hour in a space specifically designed to contain water, he floods the bathroom.

More than once.

How is so much of the shower happening outside the shower?

I’m not asking for anything fancy. I would simply like the water to remain in the area we purchased specifically for that purpose.

Instead, we’ve reached the point of having this conversation:

“Yes, that is mold.”

“No, you don’t want it in your bathroom.”

“Yes, something needs to be done.”

I knew parenting would involve difficult conversations. Friendships. Relationships. Making good choices.

I didn’t realize I would also have to explain why we are not providing long-term housing for mold.

And somehow, I’m presenting this information like a proposal he’s welcome to decline.

Honey, we are not choosing a paint color. You don’t get to prefer the mold.

What really tests my patience is his apparent belief that cleaning shouldn’t be something he has to do.

As though I wake up excited to discover what everyone has left for me.

“Oh, wonderful. A wet towel and somebody else’s trash. They remembered.”

I have hobbies. None of them involve investigating a bathroom floor.

But ask him to clean up, and here come the passive-aggressive responses and the eye rolls. The exhaustion of being expected to contribute to the home in which he eats, sleeps, showers for an entire fiscal quarter, and enjoys electricity.

I’m not asking him to renovate the basement.

I’m asking him to stop slowly returning it to nature.

Eventually, he does emerge from downstairs. Usually because he’s hungry.

Breakfast Is Whenever His Eyes Open

He’ll sleep until one in the afternoon and ask what’s for breakfast.

Breakfast?

Honey, breakfast has concluded. Lunch has been discussed. Some of us have already had an entire day and would like to start it over.

But he has just arrived, and apparently the kitchen should adjust its schedule.

The boy could eat everything in the house and still be hungry. Junk food first, of course. We wouldn’t want to fill up on a meal while there are snacks requiring absolutely no preparation.

I buy groceries thinking, This should last.

That’s a fun little game I play with myself.

Then he eats, opens the refrigerator, and looks disappointed that nothing new has appeared.

There is “nothing to eat,” which often means the remaining food would require assembly.

A sandwich, for example.

I believe in him.

I also find it fascinating that someone who can locate every desirable snack in the house cannot locate his siblings’ missing belongings.

Perhaps we should keep those beside the chips.

Still, when he’s upstairs eating, I see an opportunity. We’re in the same room. He’s awake. Maybe we can have a conversation.

I remain an optimistic woman.

Thank You for Contacting Your Son

How was school?

“Fine.”

What do you want to do?

“I don’t know.”

Anything going on?

“No.”

Well, this has been lovely. Thank you for your time.

Trying to talk to him sometimes feels like calling a business that would prefer not to have customers.

The answers are “fine” or “I don’t know,” and I’m supposed to piece together his life from those two phrases.

Girls are an especially restricted subject.

I’m not asking to officiate a wedding. I’m asking whether there’s someone he likes.

Apparently, my security clearance only covers groceries and transportation.

I want to respect his privacy. I don’t need every detail. But occasionally, I’d enjoy a conversation containing enough information to ask a follow-up question.

Sometimes I keep asking, hoping the next question will unlock a full sentence. Then I realize I’ve become the person I wouldn’t want to sit beside on a plane.

So I’m trying to leave a little room.

This becomes more difficult when there is actual information I need. Like a plan for homecoming.

An event with a date. A date we know in advance. An excellent chance to arrange things before they become urgent.

I wanted details. He seemed concerned that details might spoil the experience.

Who? Where? When?

“I don’t know.”

Of course you don’t.

Why use all that advance notice when we could wait until everyone’s blood pressure is involved?

Homecoming was his event and my anxiety. I’m happy to help, but I would appreciate knowing I’m part of the plan before the plan requires me to put shoes on immediately.

What makes the lack of conversation especially impressive is that he has plenty to say when his siblings enter the room.

Suddenly, communication is thriving.

He has ideas. Observations. An extraordinary ability to identify exactly what will get a reaction.

I can’t get a second sentence about school, but he can pursue a sibling disagreement with the dedication of a man defending his dissertation.

Could we apply a fraction of that focus to the washing machine?

And while we’re discussing interactions with other people, when does burping and farting on them stop being entertaining?

I’d like an estimated completion date.

I understand bodily functions. I have four kids. My innocence left years ago.

But “Please don’t fart on your sibling” is a sentence I did not expect to be delivering with authority at this stage of my life.

These are the daily conversations happening in our house. Which makes it especially strange when we step out of everyday life and start talking about his future.

College Visits and Other Tests of My Nerves

We recently took him to Indiana University for a college visit.

I pictured us exploring campus, discussing possibilities, and having one of those meaningful family moments where everyone appreciates the effort involved.

That was ambitious of me.

He took the opportunity to fight with his siblings and be angry.

Lovely. We’ve brought our regular programming on location.

Somewhere between hoping he felt inspired and wanting everyone to stop arguing, I thought, Please tell me this isn’t an indication that college isn’t in his future.

I know one frustrating weekend doesn’t decide that. But it’s a peculiar experience to imagine your child living independently while remembering that you recently had to explain why mold was unwelcome in his bathroom.

I still want to hear what interested him about IU and whether he could picture himself there.

So far, the review is “fine.”

Admissions may quote him.

Before we get to college, though, we have another milestone approaching: his learner’s permit.

Please keep me in your thoughts.

Paying attention is not exactly his specialty. I’m still trying to get him to notice things lying directly beneath his feet, and soon he’ll need to notice things moving in several directions.

I want him to learn. I want him to become a careful, capable driver.

I would also like a brake pedal on my side and somewhere quiet to sit afterward.

It feels as though we’re opening new training programs before finishing the existing ones. Laundry is still in progress. Bathroom maintenance needs review. Now we’re adding a motor vehicle.

And yet, for all these approaching steps toward independence, getting him to step outside remains surprisingly difficult.

The Gaming Vampire Would Prefer to Stay Home

We live in Colorado. People spend money to come here and enjoy the outdoors.

My son would prefer the basement.

He is content being a gaming vampire while I stand upstairs making increasingly unpopular suggestions involving fresh air.

“A walk?”

No.

“Come outside for a little while?”

Why?

Because I would like you to experience weather without downloading it.

I’m not asking us to summit a mountain before breakfast—although, given his breakfast schedule, we’d have time.

A little daylight would be lovely. A change of scenery. Proof that he can exist somewhere other than between a screen and the refrigerator.

It’s usually around this point, after I’ve asked something several times, that I hear a familiar voice.

Coming out of my own mouth.

My Mother Has Entered the Conversation

Every now and then, I open my mouth and my mama comes out.

Sometimes it’s my grandma.

Neither one asked permission. They just show up when I’m standing at the basement stairs looking at something I’ve already asked him to clean.

Suddenly, I’m saying, “Back in my day…”

And I have to stop.

Back in my day? When did I become a person with a historical period?

I remember hearing those words as a kid and thinking, Here we go.

Now I’m giving the presentation, and apparently I have several points to cover.

Then out comes my mom’s line: “Katie, bar the door.”

There she is. My mother. Coming directly out of my mouth.

I’m trying to give him choices and respect his growing independence. Meanwhile, generations of Southern women are gathering in my vocabulary, wondering why we’re still discussing whether he needs to pick up his pants.

I couldn’t tell you why I walked into the kitchen, but apparently I’ve retained an entire family archive of things to say to a child who’s testing my patience.

And now I understand their tone.

I used to think they were being dramatic.

Turns out, they had already asked nicely.

Patience, Reverse Psychology, and Picking My Moments

This stage requires patience.

A ridiculous amount of patience.

The kind where you pause before answering because your first response would not improve the situation.

It also makes reverse psychology look appealing.

Maybe I’ve approached the outdoors all wrong.

“Absolutely no fresh air today. And don’t let me catch you doing laundry.”

Would he suddenly develop an interest in both? I can’t promise results, but I understand why a mother might consider testing the theory.

Mostly, I’m trying to give him more ownership. A reasonable choice about when something gets done. Room to solve a problem before I jump in with instructions he’s already heard.

He seems more interested in an idea when I haven’t personally delivered it.

That’s humbling when the idea is “put your clothes in the hamper,” and I’ve been promoting it for years.

I’m also learning that I don’t have to attend every argument I’m invited to.

An eye roll can remain an eye roll. The chore can still be expected. I can take a minute before responding.

Sometimes I manage this beautifully.

Other times, I go downstairs.

The truth is, I don’t want every conversation with my son to be about something he hasn’t done. I want to enjoy him, understand him, and hear what he thinks when he’s ready to tell me.

I also want him to leave this house knowing how to wash his clothes, clean a bathroom, make a plan, and consider the people around him.

Some days we’ll make progress. Some days we’ll revisit material I thought we’d covered.

He’s learning how to grow up. I’m learning how to give him room without quietly accepting a basement full of candy wrappers.

I’ll probably ask too many questions sometimes. He’ll probably answer “fine.”

But I’ll keep showing up, keep listening, and keep expecting him to do the things I know he’s capable of doing.

Because I love him.

And because I refuse to send another household a man who believes laundry happens through divine intervention.

Now, honey, please get out of the shower.

You’ve had an hour, and we need to inspect the shoreline.

What sentence have you said to your teenager that you never imagined would be part of parenting?