I wouldn’t say that our eldest son is a slob. But I will say with all the love that I can muster that he isn’t exactly known for being neat.
|
Dirty towels don’t ruffle his feathers, clean sinks aren’t his forte, and if he were ever to star in a sitcom such as "The Odd Couple," Vernon would definitely play the slob.
We, as a family, have just sort of gotten used to the fact that Vernon doesn’t sport crisp cuffs. We follow him around with dustpans, vacuum the floors behind him, and rather than fight his habits in the bathroom, we packed up our toiletries and left him with a lavatory all his own so that he could bask in his own squalor.
For 19 years we’ve lived with Vernon and his ways. Although his laugh is contagious and his smile is award-winning, his sneakers are filthy and he doesn’t really care that his sink is splattered with toothpaste.
A weaker mother would have freaked out long ago at raising a child who wasn’t in tune with his inner sanitary person. But I took deep breaths and consoled myself with the fact that Vernon would soon pack up his belongings and run off to share his filth with others, and that one day I’d miss his rubbish.
Although I must admit that time went by too fast, I prepared Vernon for his very first apartment last week and comforted my broken heart by unloading my used wares. As I packed up old skillets and drink ware, I didn’t pay much mind to their condition. After all, a child like Vernon wouldn’t care. After all, as an individual who needed constant reminding that soiled dishes belonged in the sink, I didn’t see how Vernon could be anything but grateful for an old skillet, two tumblers and four Mason jars.
We drove to Vernon’s new apartment and then we, as a family, hauled several boxes up a long flight of stairs, then left to pick up an old couch in hopes of making Vernon’s apartment complete.
When we returned to Vernon’s new dwelling later in the day, a young man appeared on the balcony of the secondfloor apartment. He looked like Vernon, sounded like Vernon, but as strange as it seemed, there was no way this person could have been Vernon. He was cleanshaven, prim, and he may have even taken the time to iron his T-shirt.
"Mother," this young man called to me with a voice that was laced with irritation, "you gave me mismatched silverware."
"Oh?" I responded with a touch of perplexity, as I couldn’t see how this would be a problem.
"Yes," he said with great disdain, "there’s, like, four different patterns in there."
I swear he sounded appalled. But my Vernon, the child who slept with fishing gear and watched TV in a cloud of disgustingness, wouldn’t care that his butter knife didn’t match the fork that he’d planned to use for the scampi.
"Well, Vernon," I replied as I struggled to hold up my end of his secondhand couch, "that silverware has always been good enough for us. In fact, I pulled it right out of my kitchen drawer."
"I don’t like things that don’t match," he said with repugnance. And again I had to wonder if this was the same child we’d dropped off only a short time ago.
I don’t think I responded to him so much as gave him a curious look. I was blinking rapidly and trying to wrap my mind around what he just said, when he proclaimed with disgust, "Some of the forks are bent!"
Well, if that didn’t tear it.
"You know, Vernon," I called out for the entire apartment complex to hear, "I haven’t had a complete set of silverware since 1990. That, coincidently, is about the same year you developed an overwhelming need to bore a tunnel into the neighbor’s yard with a soup spoon."
"What about the coffee cups? My dinnerware isn’t complete, and what is up with these towels? None of it matches."
Need I say that I was flabbergasted? For before me stood a clean-shaven young man who suddenly had a need for uniformity and consistency. Could this truly be the same child who had left his bedroom looking as if a tornado had hit a sporting goods store and his closet in shambles? Had aliens come from outer space and taken over Vernon’s body, and if so, whatever did they do with the real Vernon?
To make matters worse, the mother of his roommate caught up with me yesterday and said that Vernon chewed her son out for not rinsing his toothpaste down the bathroom sink.
What kind of kid waits until he’s on his own to become the spitting image of Mr. Clean?
Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book "Are We There Yet?" You can reach her at www.loriclinch. com.