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About four years ago, my husband and I experienced a simultaneous mid-life crisis. After more than 20 years of marriage, at the enlightened ages of 44 and 47, we sold our cozy 2,700-square-foot house in the 'burbs, complete with quaint bird feeders, loads of back-breaking landscape maintenance and an inviting tiki-torch-surrounded fire pit.

Donating more than two-thirds of our worldly possessions (plus two hot tickets to the Vans Warped Tour) to Goodwill and their friendly paroled volunteers, we moved a couple of teenagers, one senior bichon, and our adventure-craving selves into a three-bedroom, one bath, 600-square-foot city apartment, complete with a three-flight walk up, no elevator required.

We traded privacy for claustrophobic togetherness, mirrored vanities for color-coded shower caddies and an element-proof garage for two very weather susceptible parking spots identified by faded yellow lines. We also gained eighty or so very noisy housemates, for we had moved into a high school boys' dormitory.

"She's crazy! No her husband lost his job." The mirth and rumors spread through the international campus on which I am a teacher by day and dorm parent by night. Alas, such reasonable explanations for our bizarre behavior were just not so. And when my CRV's lease expired and I exchanged its sleek comfort for an even more streamlined off-road bicycle adorned with chiming, handlebar bells alerting senior walkers to my presence (they don't often see me coming in my red, racing helmet) my husband's colleague responded with, "You two were always very NPR."

By the way, this decision has given me so much cred with my 7-year-old day students that I am never going back to an engine-powered vehicle. Seeing your teacher ride up to the classroom on two wheels, her dress flapping in the wind, makes quite an impression.

Four years later we have rarely regretted our decision. Our son has moved on to college, and our seventeen-year-old daughter remains sister to an in-house motley group of hormonal young men ages fifteen to twenty. Nightly, there are random knocks on the door.

"Mrs. Austin, I'm locked out of my room. Mrs. Austin, do you have ice for my knee? Momma Austin, can you help me iron my pants? Mrs. Austin, I have a cut. I can't find it right now. Well, it was right there, right there. Yeah, it's hard to see, but, do you have some Neosporin and a bandage? You know, the ones with the Marvel Superheroes on them. Momma, I'm starving! Do you have food?"

They slide in through the front door, some bold, some shy, some terrified of the yipping, seven-pound aged bichon, and pull up on the chinning bar that hangs in the middle of my kitchen. Canisters of coins for laundry have taken the place of tchotchke, Snoopy or Olaf-themed pillows and blankets are cuddled nightly, and Just Dance tournaments to the tune of "Let It Go" are enjoyed by unlikely pairings such as the 280-plus pound defensive tackle from Philly and the 150 pound ice-hockey player from Finland. Yes, they do sing along.

"No wrestling in the family room!" bursts from my lips hourly, but I've given up on putting down the toilet seat or attempting to keep up with the crumbled black turf that constantly litters the floor. Anyone who visited my House Beautiful worthy home of the past would think I'd suffered a stroke to enter our close quarters and find internationally-decorated and smelly wrestlers piled up, asleep on the floor, clutching the life-sized Teddy Bear my daughter dubbed Strawberry.

Holidays are memorable. There have been snow days which, when announced, cause a herd of stomping feet on the steps which could rival a wildebeest stampede as our charges head to the surrounding drifts for the snow challenge. This involves diving head-first into the powdery whiteness in your boxers or swim trunks. As parents, we were warned that our daughter might get an eye-full, but we didn't realize it would happen as she joined the fray in their trout-like belly flopping.

Christmas dinners are served family style and bring surprises, such as the seemingly rough-edged guy down the hall who quietly sat down and gently placed a lit votive candle in the center of our table.

Spring brings egg hunts during which grown men seek those familiar, filled, plastic toys with enthusiasm that rivals any toddler who is willing to tear his blood brother from limb to limb for a tiny piece of Laffy Taffy.

These guys never fail to surprise. My daughter has gotten our hallway neighbors to join the school dance show and show off their softer sides while their pals heckle them from theatre seats, all the while secretly jealous that their roommates are paired in creative movement with actual, female girls.

I've encouraged them to don aprons in order to roll out sweet dough for cinnamon biscuits or cookies, cookies which have inspired written verse on the part of a certain male athlete who never seemed like the poetic type.

We've hidden en masse in their dorm rooms from the Carpenter Hall ghost, and huddled in the basement for arm wrestling matches during which, when they've gotten out of hand, one student could always be counted to calm everyone down by saying, "Are you gonna do Mrs. Austin like that?"

A few months ago, while riding my fancy wheels into work, I pulled through a corner gas station and saw a friend from our old partying suburban life. He seemed shocked by my tinging bell and accompanying unexpected appearance as he filled his tank during the morning rush hour. Later on, he admitted he didn't know how to respond to my ghostly form materializing out of the morning fog.

"It was quite like Mary Poppins," he stated over wine and pizza. I realized that was the dream my husband and I had chased when we packed up those few years ago. Who cares about the ever-present gym bag smell or the complete and utter lack of space or anonymity? We are governess, mom and surrogate dad to amazing individuals from all over the world. So, yeah, you can leave the toilet seat up in my house.

-Vicki Austin

Vicki Austin, faculty and dorm parent at Wyoming Seminary College Preparatory School, lives with her husband, two children and 80 or so other teenage boys in Kingston, Pennsylvania. Vicki has more than 20 years of experience in many facets of education and is currently shifting her writing focus from persuasive to creative. Vicki's most recent work has been featured on the Erma Bombeck Writers' Workshop blog, included in the online journals Projected Letters and Wraparound South and printed in The Walls Between Us: Essays in Search of Truth, a Juncture publication. You can find Vicki on Twitter @VickiAustin02 and offer her encouragement as she puts the finishing touches on her first novel.