As the mother of a 14 year old boy and 20 year old man-child, the most frequent words I hear are “What’s to eat?” and “I have a problem.” The response to both is the same – make a sandwich. I’ve commented before on the trials of being a MOB but seriously – I’m beginning to wonder if my sons are bottomless needy pits. I look at them and I see open beaks constantly squawking for attention. When does the boy child become self-sufficient?

Lest I be accused of male-bashing, let me state that my female offspring has frequent bouts of mummy mania. But somehow the common sense gene seems slightly less recessive with her.

After discussing this with friends I realise my problem is far from unique. SMOGs report that girls grow up, get educated, seek gainful employment, and leave the nest. MOBs paint a very different picture. As boys increase in size, so do their appetites and capacity for causing mayhem and incurring unexpected, unwanted expenses.

In spite of the fact that – as one friend bluntly put it – Murphy has a “special” relationship with my family –  I think I have had more than my fair share of testosterone-tainted calamity. The bigger the boy, the bigger the issue. In my household we’ve graduated from “I’ve lost my school shoes” to “I crashed the car” and “I got robbed”. I spend an inordinate amount of time sorting out OPP* when I should be focused on myself.

But being Mrs Fix-It is only part of the problem. In the rare event you produce a boy who submits to formal education without protest, the chances of getting him to leave home post-graduation are slim. I recently suggested to my eldest that now that he is gainfully employed, perhaps he’d like to consider moving out? From his reaction you’d think I’d asked him to lop off a testicle.

I blame myself. Home is clearly Too Nice. At age 22 I was a fresh faced graduate living in a cold apartment and determined to prove I could make it on my own. My mother was thousands of miles away; and even if she hadn’t been, I doubt she would have been setting an alarm to wake me up, make my breakfast, pack my lunch, and wave as I drove off in her car.

By contrast both of my sons have made it quite clear that they have no intention of leaving home any time soon – perhaps never. Why should they? Free room and board, laundry service, transport, and Wi-Fi. I briefly contemplated losing the 14 year old in the mall after a shopping expedition last week. He’s 6′ 1″, 160 lbs, and wears a size 13 shoe. The expense of clothing this goliath is astronomical. And don’t talk about my grocery bill. He requires feeding every two hours.

I honestly don’t know how much longer my finances – and sanity – can withstand the constant and ever-increasing demands. I followed the rules of the parenting manual. Loved, nurtured and guided – so why the hell can’t they fend for themselves? I’m sure I’ll be relegated to the maid’s room when both sons take over the house with their wives and kids.

I love my boys dearly and these home grown money pits are my creations. This is my reward for helicopter parenting. Given the opportunity for a redo I probably wouldn’t change a thing. Living in a country where baby-faced thugs casually extinguish life for an iPhone and a pair of Supras has given me a grim appreciation for the endangered young male species. As much as I bitch about their dependence at least I know where my sons are. Sadly many mothers in Trinidad and Tobago cannot say the same.

So here’s to the bottomless laundry basket, the empty larder, and the dent in the just-serviced car. Drink a toast to mama’s boys everywhere; and the women who made them.

OPP* – Other People’s Problems