It's amazing to me what teenage boys do behind closed doors. Yes, I know, because they can no longer close the door. At least not if they want some of the flow of the swamp cooler to waft through the place, which even they realize is so necessary with FIVE of them crammed into The Transporters less than pristine room.
It's been absolutely hysterical to listen in on them. Not on purpose, I'm not that controlling of a mother, but I am in the next room. I like to write sitting on my bed, in my newly remodeled sanctuary. I hear everything that goes on next door.
They are the kings of multitasking. Usually, there's a computer going with Minecraft (amazing game, requires creativity and thought and that you build your own world to “play” in), each had a DS in hand, they've reverted to elementary school and are catching Pokemon and trading them. Much of the conversation revolves around each monster's particular attributes and the debate gets heated. Meanwhile, SoccerBoy usually has brought over his TV and XBOX so two of those complete systems are also up and running. They're playing Halo, while playing Pokemon, while talking, and not just among themselves, they're on XBOX live and I hear SkinnyBoy's voice! I don't know how they do it.
One day the conversation left Pokemon and went to, of all places, differences in the criminal justice system in the US verses Spain. Loved being a fly on the wall for that one. I'll sum it up by saying corruption knows no country boundaries, apparently. The consensus was that it's bad all over, with politicians getting away with whatever they want. What amazed me though is that all the clicking of controllers, sliding of styluses, and building of worlds ceased during the discussion. I wonder what other topics have made them stop everything to talk.
They stay in that room for hours. We're talking twelve straight. They feed themselves. The Transporter will fire up the grill and make everyone hotdogs. Or they'll order their own pizza. They won't remove the used paper plates or those pizza boxes from the room, though. Maybe it's some sort of shrine to go with all the empty Arnold Palmer tea bottles which are in a pyramid of sorts in one corner.
Many of them spend the night. On the last day of school we had six. The boy from Spain cracked me up. The other guys just stay in the same clothes for days on end as the cycle of gaming and talking and eating and multitasking begin for another round. Not Mr. Spain, he wore “suit” pj's. You know, the shirt with buttons and matching pants. With piped seams. Very classy.
We were THE house where everyone has gathered since we moved into the neighborhood. It was my secret wish that even when they got into their late teen years, they'd still want to hang out here. I didn't think it would happen though because our basement is so Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang, and the upstairs not a lot better. They don't seem to care. I guess all they want is to be left to do what they want, and occasionally have something to eat to fuel the many tasks at hand.
What have you learned about the species of teenage boy in your travels? Are you THE house? Would you want to be?