When my husband and I merged families we ended up with two boys the same age. I’ll call them Phinias and Ferb. I promised Ferb I would never post this story, but my deadline is looming and he pulled the toilet out of the bathroom and left it in the basement, so I figure we’ll be even after this.
Back when the boys were teenagers, I came across a six-pack of condoms laying on the ironing board in the extra bedroom. Furious, I marched into Phinias’ room and demanded to know where they came from.
“They’re not mine,” he said.
I questioned him again. “Are you sure these aren’t yours?’
“They’re not even the brand I use.”
WHAT? THE? “Not the brand you use? I’m coming back for you later, buddy.”
On to Ferb’s room. “Are these yours?” I waved the condoms in his face.
“You may as well tell me now, because I’m not going to leave until I get an answer.”
I got the answer all right. It seems our little entrepreneur was renting out the spare room — complete with bunk beds — to his friends to have sex in.
“Ewww!” I dropped the condoms in the trash.
“New rule,” I screamed.
(New Rules were instated a lot during their teenage years – like, No Dogs on the Dining Room Table! or, No Syphoning Gas Out of My Car!)
“No one,” I shouted, “and I mean NO ONE is allowed to have sex in this house except your Dad and I.”
I was pleased to hear Phinias and Ferb yell, “Ewww!”
We all suffered from nightmares after that.