I once (foolishly) believed that as my children got older, parenting would become easier.

I once also believed I would grow up looking like I belonged on the cover of a Victoria Secret’s catalogue and thought butterflies were a glorified public transportation system for fairies.

It’s no surprise (to anyone but me) that I have been known to be wrong every now and then.

Somehow in my head, I figured that once the kids were potty trained, could speak, and learned to read and write, my life as a mom would be a figurative cake walk. I assumed my demon offspring would always eat their vegetables, brush their teeth and do their homework with little prompting from me.

Because they are older. That’s what big kids do, right?

BWHAHAHAAHAHA! Foolish girl.

Somehow, I forgot to figure into the equation something about the apple not falling far from the tree and realizing these are my children I was dreaming about.

I can hear my mother’s maniacal cackles in my head as the curse of “I hope one day you have children exactly like YOU!” springs to fruition.

Damn.

Turns out parenting isn’t really harder, it’s just different. Instead of worry about potty training, I worry whether they’ve flushed the toilet, changed their underwear and remembered their toothbrushes aren’t just colorful plastic decorations in the the bathroom for them to gaze upon.

I still have to force feed them brussel sprouts, bribe them with candy and politely request beg them to pick up their toys.

Nope, parenting hasn’t gotten any easier.

I don’t know why I had hoped that as they grow they would start worshipping the ground I walk on and revere my every spoken word. Chalk it up to delusional fantasies and the moonshine I brew out in the back shed.

Still, there are times when I wish they would take me seriously and listen to the wisdom I am trying to cram down their throats impart. Sometimes I really do know best.

Like when I tell my daughter that no matter how hard she tries, her baby fine hair will never look like Jessica Simpson’s and if she spends any more time trying to fix it to look like the Chicken of the Sea Queen, she will miss the bus.

Guess what? She missed the bus. And she still sported a head full of stringy fly-away hair.

My darling lovelies don’t listen to a damn word I say. My husband blames this charming characteristic on my habit of sarcasm and wit. He says I screw with them so often they never know what to believe.

He could be right.

Still, what fun would a mom have if she can’t make sport with her minions? Heh.

This past week, the tables turned on my husband and for once, my children (or specifically my son) completely disregarded his expertise and advice.

I am still trying to contain my glee.

While sorting through the mountain of laundry whilst cheerily whistling and singing a peppy tune cussing like a sailor in heat, I noticed my lovely son had only deposited one pair of undies in more than ten days worth of dirty laundry.

Checking and rechecking the piles, I tried to block out the mental image of the fungus growing around my son’s man bits and wondering how the hell to approach such a sensitive topic such as bottom drawer hygiene with a pubescent boy who refuses to even tell me if he needs toothpaste.

Fack it, I thought. I’m not paid enough to deal with this bomb. I chickened out and called my husband Boo. Let him deal with it. It’s the least he can do since I take care of everything else.

Boo was as sensitive and tactful as I had hoped he would be, once I handed the phone over to my son to speak with his father. I could hear the bellowing echo through the phone lines half way across the house.

Good job Boo. Scare the poor kid into changing his shorts. Just so he can crap into them from fear. Thanks for the help. Arsehole.

Wandering back into the kitchen, I overheard my son’s pitiful excuse for his lazy hygienic ways. Apparently, he’s not wearing the right type of underwear. All the cool kids wear boxers and my poor son has been consigned to loserdom by wearing tighty-whiteys.

Tighty-whiteys with cartoon characters on them, no less. Oh, for shame. It seems my son has been towel-whipped and teased in the locker room a time or two for his Spidey shorts and now has taken it upon himself to just go commando.

Ugh.

My son wants to wear boxers like all the other boys. But instead of telling me this he has just been making skid marks in his pants. Man I love being a mom.

Handing the phone over to me with a puppy dog look on his face, Frac went to go pull on some gonch while I was left to talk with his father about the pleasantries of raising children. At this point, raising monkeys has to be easier, I teased Boo.

“I’ll just buy him some boxers and be done with it,” I cheerfully (and stupidly) told my man.

Wrong thing to say to the man who loves his shiny gold bikini briefs. (How’s that for a mental image of my man?)

“NO. Boxer’s ride up when you play sports. He’ll get a wedgie and pinch his nuts. Boxer’s aren’t practical at his age. I explained this to him and he’ll just have to deal with it.” Boo was adamant.

Not sporting a wiener myself, I didn’t really see the big deal. “How ’bout a compromise? After all, I bought Fric a bunch of bra’s that she doesn’t need because of self-esteem issues. I’ll just buy the boy a few pair of boxers and tell him to wear them on days he doesn’t have gym or soccer.”

“Doesn’t matter. He plays at recess and at home. His package will get bit. Best stick with the briefs if you want grandbabies,” Boo commanded.

Since I’m always one to listen to my husband, I did what any good mother and wife would do. I went out and bought a couple pairs of new undies for my boy with the explicit instructions not to wear them if he is going to play sports.

You would have thought I hung the moon. It was official. I was the world’s greatest mom and definitely Frac’s favorite parent.

(Neener, neener Boo!)

And with that, ended the great underwear debate. Or so I thought.

Until my son played his usual Tuesday game of soccer.

I couldn’t help but notice he wasn’t really running that hard or that fast and he was kinda standing around. He was a decidedly poor mid-fielder, making very little contribution to his struggling team.

No matter how loud I kept yelling for him to “MOVE IT!” “DEFENSE!” “GO TO THE OUTSIDE!” “COVER YOUR MAN!” my son kinda just waddled around the field.

Getting more frustrated I yelled a bit louder. And with more frequency. Because ten year old boys totally dig when their momma’s do that.

Frac, getting tired of trying to tune me out while not really move about on the field, finally had enough and stopped to face me and yell, “STOP PESTERING ME MOM!”

I, of course, am the picture of maturity and retorted, “I WOULD IF YOU WOULD STOP ACTING LIKE YOU HAD A PIANO TIED TO YOUR ARSE!”

Just then I noticed what he was doing.

He was digging his underwear out of his ass crack where it kept riding up when ever he ran.

Just like his dad said it would.

Heh.

For the rest of the game, Frac spent more time digging buried treasure out of his nether regions than he did chasing the ball. He’s such a great soccer player.

Riding back home that night, I looked at Frac in the rear view mirror and asked him if perhaps his dad was right about boxer shorts.

“Maybe,” he mumbled while trying to pretend I was invisible.

“Well, I guess you learned something tonight, right?” I said, thinking this was the opportune time to drive home the fact that sometimes parents really do know what they are yapping about.

“Ya, I guess,” he grumbled.

Feeling like pushing my luck the point home, I asked, “And what is it you learned?”

“Next time, I’m calling Justin and riding with him. His mom isn’t near as loud or annoying as you are out on the field.”

Well, at least something was learned that night.

Sigh.