Where are all of our empty clothes hangers?!  I’ll tell you where they are.  They have been carelessly kicked beneath our beds and dressers, strewn about on our bathroom floors, or they are tightly wedged and perched cattywampus between all the other occupied clothes hangers in our closets.  They are anywhere else in and around our home, except in the goddamn laundry room where I need them.  It is a source of irritation, indeed.

Ironing is perhaps an even greater source of irritation for me.  In an effort to use the iron as little as possible, I practice a preemptive laundry method.  This system includes plucking freshly laundered, semi-damp clothing straight from the dryer, immediately placing them on a hanger, and misting them with a wrinkle-reducing product.  Then I grasp the clothed hanger by its top hook while I furiously wave the article back and forth through the air, as if I am leading the laundry parade.  To finish, I hang the the article on the clothes line above the laundry tub and I hope for the best.  The worst thing that could happen is that one of our cats will slink around the rim of the tub to inspect the clothing, granting their official seal of approval in the form of an attractive swirled pattern of black fur along the shirt tails and sleeves.  This minor setback is remedied with a quick once-over with a lint roller…if I can find one.

This morning, while in the midst of my save-me-from-the-iron ritual, I ran out of available clothes hangers.  Sometimes they will magically appear when I yell from the laundry room door, “Somebody had better gather their extra hangers and bring them to me right now!”  This only works when there are other humans in the house.  Since no one else was around, I had no alternative but to abort my mission until I could secure an ample supply of hangers.  With a heavy sigh that no one was around to appreciate, I slammed the dryer door, reset the tumbling cycle, and headed out to hunt for empty clothes hangers.

I could not remember if I had been in Jim’s room since he returned to college almost two weeks ago.  I figured that I should start there.

Entering Jim’s room has always been a bit like an adventure.  I never know what I may have to try and not notice.  There could also be potential hazards lying in wait.  Practically invisible, a few discarded guitar strings could latch onto the hem of my jeans and whip themselves around my ankles at any given moment.  I might be forced to tap dance around in order to shake the metal threads loose.  Necessary dance steps could knock over a half-full can of coke that has been perched precariously on a nearby shelf for the past month.  I never know what to expect.  Any visit to Jim’s room over the past eighteen years has been an initiative.

As soon as I opened the door to his room, a familiar odor struck my nostrils.  There are not adequate words in the English language to describe the scent that a son leaves behind in his male den.  It smells like boy.  Boy cave.  That is the best representation of this particular smell that I can offer.

I made my way toward his closet in search of hangers.  I had safely crossed half the distance without incident before my bare right foot pressed down upon a sharp and very distinct rectangular object.  I immediately recognized the source of my pain.  It was a goddamn Lego brick.

Bare feet are no match for a ruthless plastic building block.  In my twenty-two years of motherhood, I have come to regard rogue Lego pieces as weapons.  Even with the minimal sole protection of a flip-flop, there is not an adult heel on the planet that can withstand the highly calculated strike from the sharp corner of a Lego brick.  When left unnoticed along a human foot’s path, one innocent-looking Lego piece has the potential to inflict excruciating pain to any unsuspecting victim.  Given the option, I would rather iron several dozen shirts before I would subject myself to the explosion of pain that one treacherous Lego land mine can deliver.

How this particular evil minion from the wicked Lego empire found its way onto Jim’s floor is a mystery.  I am almost certain that Jim has not ‘played’ with Lego sets since we moved into this house over four years ago.  That was when we poured all of the Lego pieces from a storage container into the drawer beneath his bed.

Jim had packed for his return to school at 2:30 am the night before his flight.  Perhaps while rummaging through his drawers to locate certain items, he unknowingly allowed this one stealthy escapee to attach itself inside some article just long enough to drop to the floor and plan its future ambush.  In any event, I was unpleasantly surprised and highly irritated to feel it embedded between my little toe and foot pad.

I plucked it from the bottom of my foot and called it dirty names.  Obviously, this approach is really effective.  I hobbled toward Jim’s bed to return the evil brick.  I’m sure that it wanted to brag among its fellow heinous friends in the drawer.

Somehow, just opening the drawer to see all the thousands of Lego pieces suddenly tempered my sour mood.  I recalled all the occasions when Jim would sit on the floor for hours on end, content to be lost in the construction of his Lego worlds.  I was smiling.  All past and recent encounters with Lego peril had vanished.  I remembered that it was during these moments, when Jim was completely absorbed in his play, that he was most receptive to heartfelt conversation.

Engaging the quiet attention of a boy who is occupied in some form of activity has always been the main avenue to effective communication between parent and son.  I find that this method holds true among boys who grow up to be men, as well.  Durwood not only listens more attentively when he is engaged in some form of physical activity, it seems that he offers his genuine thoughts to me (or the kids) more readily, too.  If one of us requests his undivided attention without any props to occupy him, we are less likely to succeed in obtaining any authentic responses.

This approach has its limits, of course.  Most of us know that it is pointless to attempt conversation with a boy who is watching any type of sporting event on television.  It is also more productive when we are mindful of personality, dispositions,  and current stress levels when venturing into the realm of boy conversation.

I recall one instance in particular when Durwood was on the back porch cooking hamburgers on the grill.  This had to be at least 15 years ago when we were living in our second home.  Freshly satiated from one of my counseling sessions with a gifted therapist, I was bursting with incite.  I was annoying.  I will never forget how Durwood turned away from me very slowly to lower the volume on the radio he had been listening to.  He turned back towards me, folded his arms across his chest, tilted his head to one side while ceremoniously raising his eyebrows, and executed a very long and dramatic exhaling sound from his nose.  I try to remember that reaction every time I have an inclination to talk to him when I suspect it might not be a good time.  Twenty-four years of marriage has its wisdom.

The Bean girls are seldom detached from human contact.  Katarina and Natalie rarely decline the opportunity to share their thoughts, and any consequential emotions that they may be experiencing.  Jim, on the other hand, has always required a different approach whenever I sensed his need for parental guidance.

When the girls come home from school (or work), they are more than eager to share their daily highs and lows without prompting.  Jim would usually retreat to his cave.  I had different tactics to employ if I ever wanted to offer Jim an opportunity to share his highs and lows with us.  Besides waiting until he was occupied with some form of activity (like playing with his Lego sets), there are a few other suggestions to engage the thoughts of a son.

Given ample time in their lion dens, boys (and husbands) will often emerge eventually.  I like to wait until they pose the question, “When will dinner be ready?”  This is a cue to respond with a short answer, followed by a simple observation on their current mood.  I will inform Jim that “Dinner is soon.”  Then I will add a short remark, such as, “You seem tired (energetic, upset, happy, content, busy, something…).”  This will usually produce a genuine reply.  Even a mumbled “yeah” is considered progress with a teenage boy.  A husband might surprise you with a genuine confirmation, and even be apt to offer more.

When interested in sparking genuine conversation with a son (or a husband!), another guideline to follow requires that you limit your statements to no more than five words or less.  This seems to be the magic number when initiating an exchange.  Anything more than that will fall upon deaf ears.  You will be able to increase the amount of words in your statements eventually, but not until you have successfully drawn their interest first with concise prompts.

Jim will be nineteen years old in a few months.  Between the occasional texts and email messaging, he actually talks with me over the phone for more than five or ten minutes at a time.  When he is home from school, he will spend extraordinary lengths of time chatting with me on the front porch.  (I am smiling again.)

Of course, if he reads this post, he will now be privy to some of my tricks.  In that case, I may have to come up with some new tactics.

I could always send a few Lego sets to him at school.  As long as he doesn’t step on one of those demon bricks, he might just sit on the floor of his dorm room one day and feel the need to call me.  Of course, he’ll have to pick up all of the empty clothes hangers that are spread all over his floor first.

Tags: authentic responses, boy cave, boy conversation, boy smell, genuine conversation with son, genuine thoughts, heartfelt conversation, ironing, laundry method, Lego brick, Lego land mine, male den, parental guidance, playing with Lego sets, rogue Lego pieces, teenage boy