That’s my Boy!

Well, tomorrow number one son (nearly 15) is off to Belgium on a school trip to the battlefields.
Of course, being a model child, he raced home from school tonight to get his packing done… well, ok, he finally sauntered in the house, casually threw his coat and bag in the general direction of the cupboard, kicked one shoe off under the sofa and the other half way down the hall where it met the dog, and ambled into the kitchen in search of nourishment. Mouth finally stuffed full of cereal bar, banana and what I suspect was one of my secret stash of hobnobs, he mumbled something incomprehensible at me, and stomped off upstairs to The Pit.

The Pit: if you are not the mother of a teenage boy, simply put, The Pit is a living entity similar to a black hole, sucking in and retaining all manner of rotting matter. Cups, glasses, plates, crisp packets, smuggled contraband such as chocolate wrappers are magnetically drawn into this deep chasm, and scattered around in various stages of decomposition. The Pit also extends its effect onto various garments... crunchy socks, inside-out jeans with pants still attached, screwed up T shirts, sweaty sportswear, muddy trainers all mysteriously gravitate together creating a mountain of mouldering decay on the floor of the Pit.
It is dark inside the Pit, for few dare to venture within. The curtains are never drawn, and the rarefied atmosphere would not tolerate the opening of the window. There are sporadic attempts to lighten the claustrophobic, foetid air with the spraying of underarm deodorant, a futile gesture intended to banish the “Smell of Boy” (An apt and accurate description observed with disgust by said Boy’s sister, "Euwwww, this room smells of BOY!").

To resume. Number one is ensconced in The Pit, gazing at flickering images on the Computer Screen (“Em-ess-en”, I believe, or some other teen communication device… I’m not sure how it works, cos the screen is always turned away from me when I walk in…)
“D’you want to think about packing for tomorrow then?” I suggest, casually leaning on the doorframe, peering into the gloom of The Pit, and wondering how long I can continue to speak without breathing in.
“Nah” is the concise reply.
“Let me put it another way, please collect all the stuff you want to take and bring it into my room” I declare, then race to the pure air of the landing, where I can breathe again.

Now, I know I should just give him a bag and tell him to get on with it, I mean he should be old enough…..but I did make that mistake in the past. After a wet and muddy week in the lakes with one pair of trainers, 1 pair of jeans and 2 T shirts, I have learned my lesson. Added to which, we don’t have a decontamination Unit big enough any more, so I’m not risking it again this time.

Half an hour later, I come in with a hold all, ready to throw the stuff in and check it off my mental tick list.
“Errr… where’s the stuff you're taking?” I call to Number One.
“On your bed, ”he calls back, then adds proudly “I put in an extra T shirt just in case” Yes, there they are, 5 T shirts on my bed, he’s going for 4 days, forward planning indeed, maybe he IS growing up, becoming a little more responsible…
Ye…ees, there are the T shirts, now (looking round) … errr, there are the T shirts and that’s it…
“Are you sure you’ve got together everything you want to take?” I ask tentatively
“Yeah, it’s all on your bed…” Look around, lift the corner of the duvet and peek underneath, just in case. Nope....
“Well, where’s your jeans?”
“I’m wearing them”
“Pants? Or are you wearing those too?”
“Errr… I forgot them”
“Socks?”
“Pyjamas?”
“Wash bag and towel?”

Finally, with much grumbling and groaning he collects the necessary (as far as mothers are concerned) items and throws them in a jumble into the bag.
“Right then, is that it son? Can you think of anything else you want?”
“No, that’s it. Oh except the camera.”
“What camera?”
“The disposable camera”
At the risk of repeating myself I enquire,“What disposable camera?”
“The one I meant to ask Dad to get for me”
I take a deep breath “And did you ask him?”
“Errr, not yet….”
Well, bearing in mind we are less than 12 hours before Lift Off (or more accurately “Coach Off”, but it doesn’t have quite the same ring, does it?) I am left wondering just when he WAS going to get round to asking…

Now, I wonder if I should put his gloves on a string through his sleeves and safety pin his Passport into his coat.....