Yes, we’re thankful our sons are healthy.

Yes, we’re glad they are home and safe with us.

And yes, there’s a part of us that feels a little guilty that we’re complaining about them.

But if you’re the Mom of a young adult son who has returned to live at home once again, after being joyfully released from your roving parental eyes and supervision for the good part of a year or longer, we’re pretty sure you can relate.

We’ll just come out and say it: It is unnatural for young men who are old enough to join the armed forces, grow a full beard, or live in a fraternity house to be residing full-time under the same roof as their mothers. For months on end…

There are simply too many things we do not want to know about you and your daily habits.

Eww. Just eww.  If ignorance is bliss then we want to be downright euphoric rather than in the know. Honestly.

We don’t want to know how long you spend in the shower nor have any auditory hints of what you are doing in there. Same goes for that disgusting pile of jizzues growing in your wastebasket. Stealthily transport that garbage out of the house and leave no trace behind.

We don’t want to look at your gnarly, hairy feet and long-ass toenails up on our furniture. And speaking of those toenails, we don’t want to know when and how your feet got so Sasquatch like. They are forever in our line of vision, perched on the coffee table and kitchen chairs or sticking out of the covers at 2 p.m. when you should be awake. And just out of curiosity, where do you put those hideous toenails when you pick at them at school?

We don’t want to watch you shoveling food into your cakehole every hour on the hour. And we don’t want to calculate how much cereal you consume on the daily. Vegetables still exist. Eat a damn carrot.

We don’t want to know how you’ve mistaken our kitchen for the dining hall. I mean, sure they’re both free and have a ton of options.  The difference?  I have no desire to feed you 24/7.  Bravo for “cooking” for yourself but cereal is not a meal after 10 a.m. Speaking of time, here’s some Vampire Math: Your nocturnal hunger increases at the same rate as my desire to sleep.  Now solve the problem. And stop banging the shit out of every appliance, kitchen utensil, and cabinet door that you touch.

We don’t want to hear nor smell the noxious gasses that escape your body cavities as entertainment at all hours of the day and night, particularly when you follow them up with a smug head nod and a self-congratulatory, “Niiice.”

We don’t savor being called “Dude”, “mate”, or “bruh”.  We should not have to decode our conversations via the Urban Dictionary or sign up for a crash course in slang. We have a newsflash for you – “Bruh” is not a term of endearment. And we really don’t want to threaten you with emoji-filled texts just to be called Mom.

We all know there are relaxed dress codes here in Chez Covid, but let’s be clear: boxers are not pants.  We have as much desire to see you in your underwear as you have to see us in ours. Let’s save all the scarring images and just don pants or actual shorts outside of the bedroom. Deal?

We do know you are beyond tired of this shitty monotony. We are, too.

We do know you want to be out in the world this summer doing all of the things you should be doing, like hanging out with friends, working at jobs that pay actual cash, gaining experience at internships, traveling to new places, perhaps falling in lust or in love.

We’d love you to be doing all of those things as well. We’ve all grown weary of those video games.

But we want you safe and healthy, too. So, proceed with caution.

Your family has exercised a lot of patience for a couple of months, and we can continue to do so. Try to dig deep, and not be a douche canoe – in our house, or anywhere.

Thanks, bruh.



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