I live with three boys and I’ve become their mother

They’re incapable of cleaning

When I told my friends this time last year that I was going to share a flat with three boys, the recurring response of “are you mad?!” did begin to concern me a bit.

Now, one year on, semester two, I guess they weren’t joking.

Originally, I chose to ignore the messy stereotype attached to adolescent men, because who am I to be prejudiced? As it goes, society’s perception was 100% correct. I have transformed into the domesticated bitch I said I would never be.

Me and the boys who cannot clean

Being a slight (massive) germophobe, I just can’t comprehend how happy they are living in such foul conditions.

One night, I went on a cleaning frenzy for around three hours, (this is a weekly activity for me) only to have one of them question why I did it and continue to tell me that he preferred it the way it was.


A couple of weeks ago I returned from a weekend at home to see a literal bomb site . The worst of it was the full bin that appeared in front of me – WITHOUT A BIN BAG IN IT. It’s at points like this you do tend to flip your shit a bit.

However, it’s been nice to be a part of their general growth as humans over the past year. Who knew they could have made it to nineteen with such little knowledge of how the world of looking after themselves works.

I had no choice but to become a mother of three, because how will they ever know that you can’t put tins in the microwave if I’m not there to scream at them? Now I understand what my mother complained about all of these years, it isn’t fun being a moany fuck (sorry mum), nor is it fun enduring the bitchy comebacks that prevail.

But having said all this, there’s nothing more rewarding than being the deliverer of new-found knowledge. If I weren’t there, whom would they ask about the anatomy of lesbian sex?

Then again, as a figure of minority, there is considerable victimization that comes along with that. One night I returned from a rather large night out to see a trolley on top of my bed with my covers over it. In my drunken stupor, I cried as I fell asleep next to my room’s latest decoration.

said trolley

Another night I nipped out in my dressing gown to see if I could spot my friend who I was expecting, only to return to a locked front door. It was three degrees, raining, and I was just about naked. Fifteen minutes later, they came to a compromise and told me I could come in only if I climb through the window.

There’s never a dull moment. And who wants a boring flat anyway? A bunch of girls wouldn’t buy me a BB gun for Christmas with which to shoot them.