As a mother of boys, I'm a seasoned veteran of all things nasty. I know about smelly socks, putrid bedrooms and the ever-rancid toad collection.

But it's not all wine and roses. Little boys can be disgusting individuals. They like gross conversations, bodily functions and enjoy bragging about their ability to clear the room by simply removing their shoes.

Yes sir, being a little boy's mother is a noteworthy position, one to be held in high esteemand certainly not one for the faint of heart.

One thing that a mother of boys must become accustomed to is the fear of sticking her hands into the unknown. Now and then we are called to search under beds, dig into the bowels of a dark closet, and you haven't lived until you've blindly reached into the seat cushions and found life where you thought there was none.

Laundry is no joy either. Any mother worth her soap will tell you that if a pant pocket houses something that feels fuzzy and a little squishy, don't look! Simply throw the jeans into the washing machine along with the gym shorts and take your chances on ruining the rest of the load.

It isn't exactlyMartha Stewart, but selfpreservation is key.

I firmly contend that themain source of contention here at the Clinch household is the proverbial backpack. For there is no other trash-toting vessel in my boys' possession that has a reputation for housing all that they hold dear while putting off such a rancid stench.

Amother, such as myself, can get away with keeping her hand out of the little jeans pockets. We can store gym bags in the garage until the next millennium, and challenge the 15-year-old to a battle of wills when it comes to yesterday's lunch box.

Yet the backpack is another matter. It is the source of communication with the world of education, and we, asmothers, are held accountable for its contents on a daily basis.

Ignore the backpack, and word gets around.

Take last week, for instance, when I askedmy darling little son if he had an important note from his teacher for me to sign. I knew of the note because a responsible mother who is on top of her parental game had told me of its existence.

"My teacher didn't giveme a note," little Charlie responded as he licked his lips and filled his milk glass with chocolate syrup.

"Charlie," I said as I looked at his precious face, "I'msure that your teacher gave you the note because Mrs. Spackley said that her child gave her a note."

"Well, maybe her child took my note home, did you ever think of that?"

Then the conversation went as it usually goes. I ask for the important note, he denies knowledge of its existence. I get more demanding, and eventually my little dear rummages his dirty little backpack and produces the aforementioned paperwork. Often it's wrinkled, torn and sporting a stain of some sort, but it saves me a trip into the abyss, and for this I am eternally grateful.

But this time was different. I asked and hoped against all hope that little Charlie would come through, and yet, sadly enough, he came up empty-handed. It was becoming painfully obvious that I was going to be forced to go into the backpack.

Sporting safety goggles and a can of disinfectant spray, I stood back and eyed my adversary. The backpack was leaning against the wall and was obviously straining against its own weight. I nervously bit my fingernail, ran my fingers though my hair and let out a big sigh.

Following a few deep breaths and a deep knee bend, I then hoisted the dang thing onto the kitchen counter. I swear that a green fog rolled out as I unzipped it.With forced courage and a bit of dread, I pulled out a basketball, two school shirts, one pair of gym shorts and something that may or may not have been a sock in a former life. There were candy wrappers, cookie crumbs and the remnants of a Halloween sucker.

Through determination and perseverance, I eventually came to the school paper section, and lo and behold, in the midst of twomath papers, a crossword puzzle and a list of homespun knock-knock jokes was the important note.

Thanks to a pair of tweezers and a keen eye, the extraction from the book bag was successful. I signed the note, folded it neatly and put it right back into the bag of nastiness from whence it came.

Abettermother would have hand delivered it back to the teacher, but I'm way too busy with my wine and roses to worry about that.

Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book "Are We There Yet?" You can reach her at www.loriclinch. com.