Years ago, the ten o'clock news in my home town would begin their broadcast with the phrase "It's ten o'clock, do you know where your children are"? As a father of a fifteen year-old boy I not only can answer that question with a firm "yes", but I can also account for every like-aged child in our neighborhood.

My house is the central meeting point in our locality. Teenagers dash through our doors like we are doling out ipods two for a nickel. Amazingly, my wife is able to identify 90% of our inbound and outbound traffic (a dizzying blur of hair, jeans and t-shirts). Me, I couldn't pick most of them out of a line-up, although some of our visitors look as though they might have that identification experience in their near future.

Along with the constant flux of high school students, we also have a core group of vagabonds who are convinced that they live in our home. A bag of Doritos or a box of cookies don't stand a chance when these guys are around. Their consumption of food and soft drinks rivals that of a Panama. Empty wrappers, bags and cups litter our den nightly, looking not unlike the streets of New York after Lindbergh landed. Next year I am writing this posse off as a tax deduction.

The "gang" always stays overnight on the weekends. Afternoon turns into evening and evening turns to night and still they linger. All of them seem to carry some sort of blanket visa from their folks, permitting them cross our borders without a need for parental confirmation.

On Saturday mornings, (without exception) I come across a scene reminiscent of the aftermath at Gettysburg in my den. There are bodies everywhere. Wading through the humanity strewn across the floor, I hum the "Battle Hymn of the Republic" quietly to myself, being careful not to awaken the troops.

One particular morning I was greeted by a young lady who was watching MTV in my recliner as the masses slept. She introduced herself and assured me that she had recently escaped an all-girl sleepover down the street, and was seeking the quiet of a more agreeable venue. Barely awake, I wished her a good day and grabbed my newspaper too stunned to consider the implications of her presence.

The boys have sort of a set routine when they gather at my home. First they play "Slam Ball", a basketball hybrid game played on a trampoline, which makes me extremely nervous. A temporary basketball goal is set-up next to our battered trampoline and the combatants bounce, leap, push and fight through a one-on-one game. If my insurance agent ever caught wind of this activity he would beat me unconscious with my canceled homeowner's policy.

Next comes the electronic portion of the evening. Two of out tenants begin playing XBOX 360, another launches a laptop and is in direct communication with whatever posse member might be grounded or missing, and the remaining troops work the cellphones and the frig. Last night the gamers were locked in a war simulation battle with some bloodthirsty Swedish speaking teens (aren't they supposed to be neutral?), who massacred our boys on-line then taunted them in Nordic. It amazes me that boys all over the world can give each other crap without even leaving their homes (or in this case MY home). I guess that is what they call progress.

Finally, a lively Madden Football game is played on the XBOX to determine the sleeping arrangements. The winner gets the couch, runner-up the recliner, and the rest are rug fodder.

By 4am most of the group is sleeping, unless someone has slipped by the guard. Shiloh, our blind, diabetic beagle-mix usually patrols the downstairs and howls at anything that moves, preventing anyone from escaping undetected. However, Shiloh does require some down time which creates a window of opportunity. My son and his buddies once snuck past our defenses and would have completed their mission if it weren't for a phone call from young lady's mother who awakened me at 3am wondering why my son was making eggs in her kitchen. My first reaction was "He knows how to make eggs"? My first action was to round up the prisoners and return them to lock down.

Most parents would enjoy the security of knowing where their children are at night, unfortunately none of those parents live nearby

Article Source: http://www.articleset.com