This is what happens when teenagers get bored

I dropped Mark off at school this weekend for marching band practice, then drove off to breakfast with my parents. We were approximately five minutes away when my cell phone rang. I knew immediately it was Mark.

My dad answered it, and listened as Mark quickly told him he needed a new pair of jeans and a backpack.

I just sighed--it'd taken him 30 minutes to find the first pair of jeans and to pack his bag.

"Seriously?" I asked my dad. "We literally just dropped him off--how did he already ruin his bag and clothes?" 

"His chocolate milk spilled in his backpack," my dad relayed back. He thought for a moment, then said, "He must've thrown his backpack pretty hard for the milk to explode like that." 

"Probably," I said. "Or somebody else threw it for him."

I shared the story Mark told me earlier that morning. Mark said he liked to run up to the drum section leader, Kai, and slap him whenever Kai's girlfriend was around. It wasn't hard to imagine acting like that might get Mark and/or his backpack tossed around on campus.

But either way, Mark was in a panic. 

"He wants you to bring him a new bag and pants," my dad said.

"Tell him I'll be there after breakfast," I said. Mark's life is a continual stream of crises to correct; there was no reason this couldn't wait until after our meal.

At home, finding another bag was easy; the pants were a whole different story. Mark refuses to wear jeans, so I refuse to buy them (I have wasted enough money on clothes he won't wear). As a a result, he has a limited supply of jeans to choose from.

In his earlier quest to find a pair that fit, he'd tossed all his other clothes on the bedroom floor. I waded through the mess, eventually finding a pair of size 12 jeans and pair of size 18 (he wears 14 or 16, depending on how skinny the legs are). I opted for the 18s.

"Did you bring me a belt?" he asked, when I handed him the bag.

"Did you ask for a belt?"

"No, but..." 

I just stared at him, and though he mulled it over for a minute, he ultimately thought better of asking me to run home again and find one.

"Let me have your wet backpack," I said.

"I threw it away," he answered.

We stood there again staring at one another.

I finally broke the silence. "Go get it," I said. "So I can wash it."

"I threw it away," he repeated, very slowly. "It's in the trash can."

I stood there some more. If there's one thing I've learned about being a mom, it's that sometimes an uncomfortable silence is waaaaaay more effective than a loud, yelling voice.

"Fine," Mark griped, disappearing to the band room. He returned moments later to reward my good mothering skills with a soggy, dripping backpack.

I didn't get the full story until the next morning.

"How'd the milk box explode?" I asked him. "Those little cartons are pretty strong."

"Oh," Mark laughed, as if recalling a funny story. "It exploded when it hit the ground."

"You dropped your backpack?" I asked.

"No, my friend threw it over the fence," he clarified.

"Why?"

"Because Mr. D. wasn't there yet, and the gate was locked."

"So you climbed over the fence?" I asked. (None of this story made any sense!)

"Nooooooo," Mark huffed. "We climbed under it."

As with most of Mark's stories, now I was completely confused.

"So...you fit under the fence, but your backpack didn't?" I asked. "That's why you threw it over the fence?" 

"No, we threw it because we wanted to see how far it would go," he said, slowly, because clearly, I am an idiot incapable of following such a simple story.

I suddenly realized that I was looking for clarity in a mud bog. Mark was right--whatever the story really was, I wouldn't understand it.

"Why didn't you just wait for Mr. D to show up?" I asked, grasping at one last straw. "He eventually let you in, right?"

"Well, yeah," Mark admitted. "But we were bored. That's what happens when teenagers get bored."

I opened my mouth to point out they had literally been bored for five minutes. I dropped him off, the milk exploded, the phone rang, all within five minutes. It was hard to believe a group of kids could get that bored that quickly, but then again, we weren't dealing with the most patient group here.

I closed my mouth. And this is why you're in the band...and on the basketball team...and in Boy Scouts...and all the other positive activities you complain that I "force" you to do, I thought. Because man, if he was bored enough in five minutes to  break into a school and commit vandalism (on his own belongings, anyway), what would he do with hours of free time if I didn't keep him busy after school??? (And this example totally affirms what I tell Mark daily: I keep you busy doing good stuff so you don't have time to do bad stuff!)

But what I finally said out loud was, "OK. Whatever." I was never going to get enough info to fully understand this story, and my head was starting to hurt just trying to. 

Keep him busy, I reminded myself. Just keep him busy.

And maybe send his milk boxes to school in Ziploc bags from now on...