Is my teenage son my child or the worst roommate I’ve ever had? I often wonder if I’ve unknowingly signed up for a new roommate with a pile of laundry, a broken WiFi password, and a serious obsession with snacks. Here’s a look at what it’s like living with a teenage son and how I’ve realized he’s both a joy and a complete disaster under one roof.
His Needs

Let’s talk about communication because, honestly, my son and I speak different languages. Here’s how I know I’m living with my teenage son:
- He only texts me when he needs something, and I’m starting to believe his phone has an automatic “I need you to drive me somewhere” function. If I’m lucky, I’ll get a “U up?” followed by, “I need a ride to Josh’s house.”
- Asking him for a simple favor feels like requesting a massive favor from a stranger. “Can you take out the trash?” His response? “That’s not my responsibility,” followed by a dramatic sigh as if I’ve asked him to solve world peace.
- The fridge? It’s his personal snack kingdom. I open the door, and it’s like a treasure chest—full of food I can never seem to get a piece of. He’s already staked his claim. I swear, if I even look at the chips, I hear, “I was saving those!”
My Feelings

Being the mother of a teenage son is like being on a constant emotional rollercoaster. I get these high moments where he’s sweet and affectionate, followed by low moments where I feel like the enemy.
- Just when I think I’m his favorite person in the world, I’ll overhear him talking to his friends and hear, “Ugh, my mom is such a weirdo.” Ouch, kid. Ouch.
- His brutal honesty about my appearance? While it stings, I admit, he’s often spot on. My “mom shoes” make me look like a 90s sitcom star. I didn’t need to know that.
- I ask him to do something, and he looks at me like I’ve asked him to climb Mount Everest. “Why do you always have to tell me what to do?” he’ll ask as if I’m his personal drill sergeant. But the second he forgets something important, guess who gets blamed? Me. Of course.
Cleaning Time

Ah, chores. Or should I say, “Are you kidding me?” The concept of cleanliness is a mystery to him. If I ask him to clean, I may be speaking a foreign language.
- Asking him to do laundry is met with the same enthusiasm as asking a cat to do a backflip. “I didn’t ask to be born, Mom,” he’ll argue, like that somehow makes him exempt from laundry duty.
- The bathroom? It’s a disaster. A crime scene. I swear, if it gets any worse, we’ll have to call in an investigator. And then, when I ask him to clean it, he’ll just shrug and say, “It’s not my turn.” I didn’t know that turns had specific days.
- Dishes are everywhere. Plates in his room, cups in the hallway, and forks under the couch. I’ve learned to never ask, “Where’s the spoon?” because it’s always in his room, buried under a pile of school papers and the hoodie he “swears” he will wear tomorrow.
- His bedroom? It’s a no-go zone. I’ll never understand how one person can generate so much stuff in such a small space. Asking him to clean it is like asking a tornado to hit pause.
My Role

Let’s talk about my unpaid jobs. As the mother of a teenage son, I wear many hats, but none come with a paycheck.
- I’m his personal ATM. I get texts like, “Can you send me $20?” with zero context. As if I have a money tree in the backyard.
- Uber driver? Oh, absolutely. My son needs a ride to a friend’s house… again. And, of course, the car is the only thing in the world to get him there.
- I’m also the WiFi password keeper, the laundry sorter, and the human calculator when he can’t figure out how much he’s spent on snacks this week.
- Of course, he only appears at home when he needs something—whether it’s food or a nap. But if I need something? He’s mysteriously busy. I’ve learned that if I really want his attention, I’ll just change the WiFi password. That’ll do the trick.
His Habits

A teenage son has habits that are equal parts mystifying and maddening. Some days I wonder if I’m raising a young scientist experimenting on how much chaos one house can handle.
- His showers are an event. I’m starting to believe they’re not for cleanliness but for deep thought. He’ll be in there for an hour, and when I ask what took so long, his answer is, “I was thinking.” About what? The meaning of life? A snack?
- He eats everything in sight and somehow never gains weight. Meanwhile, I look at food, and my pants get tighter. It’s almost like he’s got a secret metabolism deal with the universe.
- The fridge? I swear it’s a black hole. Items vanish. I’ll buy a six-pack of soda, only for it to disappear the next day. I find the empty cans in his room. No explanation. Just… gone.
- He promises to do important things, like taking out the trash on Monday. Of course, he doesn’t. But by Wednesday, when he hasn’t touched the dishes, I’m the one in trouble.
The Difference
Here’s the thing: while living with my teenage son can feel like I’m hosting a reality show called “Surviving the Teenage Years,” I know I’ll miss it when he’s gone. Yes, even when I’m picking up dirty socks from the hallway and I’ve just found my favorite mug buried under a pile of textbooks.
When he moves out, there will be a void. There will be an emptiness where the chaos once reigned, and despite everything, I’ll probably long for those random hugs, the ridiculous conversations, and endless requests for rides.
So, for now, I’m living the teenage son experience. It’s messy, chaotic, and sometimes downright frustrating, but I wouldn’t trade it for the world. Because one day, I’ll be asking, “Where did the time go?” and missing that teenager who thought he could live without me—until he needed money for a snack.