I was prepared for this metamorphosis because it had happened to Rhett’s older brother, Robert, at about the same age. My first inkling of the change came in a pizza parlor during a post-basketball-game dinner. Since I could not decide between black olives and anchovies, Robert gave his order first. The waitress, an attractive Madonna clone, went into great detail with him concerning salad dressings, crust types, cheese consistencies, toppings, whether he wanted ice with his Coke, did he live in the neighborhood, was there anything else he might want. When he smiled and shook his head, she floated off toward the kitchen, totally forgetting to take my order. Next to my son, I had become invisible.

I was stunned. Like most American moms, I had been so blinded by the sight of my offspring in ripped jeans and SAVE THE MANATEE T shirts, and so deafened by numerous arguments over the acceptable decibel level of Beastie Boys CDs, that I was slow to recognize my firstborn had become heartthrob material.

Nevertheless, it was true, and it became equally true for his younger brother. Through some quirks of DNA, my ex-husband and I–two average-appearing adults–spawned genetic celebrities: square-jawed, pearly-toothed, mahogany-haired, 6-foot-5-inch slabs of guy flesh whose casual glance seems to turn many otherwise articulate young women into babbling Barbies.

I’m not proud of this. Wasn’t the motherhood manifesto for women of my generation to abolish stereotypes? Weren’t ’90s men supposed to be fully functioning members of a newly designed home team, a mutually supportive, multiskilled unit? I thought so. Many of my friends thought so, too. We’ve done our part to raise our sons as full-fledged ““new’’ team members–competent, caring individuals who can do more around the house than crush cans for the recycling bin and put a new plastic liner in the garbage pail.

Both of my sons learned early to make an edible lasagna, toss a salad, sew on buttons, grocery-shop and separate the whites from the darks at laundry time. They could iron a shirt as well as rebound a basketball or kick a soccer goal. Growing up in a single-mom household for much of their lives, they really had to carry their weight domestically. And they did–for a while.

Then came puberty and hunkhood. Over the last few years, the boys’ domestic skills have atrophied because handmaidens have appeared en masse. The damsels have driven by, beeped, phoned and faxed. Some appeared so frequently outside the front door they began to remind me of the suction-footed Garfields spread-eagled on car windows. While the girls varied according to height, hair color and basic body type, they shared one characteristic. They were ever eager to help the guys out.

For example, during Robert’s freshman year at college, I arrived home from work one day to hear the sound of a vacuum. The sound intrigued me because Robert, home on spring break, was sprawled on the sofa reading the swimsuit edition of Sports Illustrated and Rhett was at crew practice. I daydreamed briefly that my fantasy had been realized and the dust wads under the bed had generated a cleaning lady. I strode back to the bedroom, briefcase in hand, but there was no one there but Bonnie, Robert’s current girlfriend. Yes, it was cum laude Bonnie of the Titian curls and the Always on Time Term Paper. Bonnie was vacuuming Robert’s room–known in our family as The Room From Hell. This meant she had been on this project for most of the afternoon, because there hadn’t been any visible floor in Robert’s room for more than a year.

I pulled the plug on the Kenmore. ““What are you doing, Bonnie?’’ I inquired gently. She replied that she was cleaning Robert’s room for him. She did not see the broader implications. I sat down slowly on the unwrinkled bed, my entire life as a postmodern woman passing before my eyes. It was a psychic near-death experience; I felt I was on the Disorient Express for good this time. I explained to her that Robert held the high-school record for rebounds in a single basketball game. His motor skills were intact. He could clean his own room. It was his choice. He chose not to do so. He chose instead to lounge in the living room and undress Kathy Ireland with his eyes.

Bonnie, despite her 140 IQ, seemed perplexed. Her green eyes widened. Her brow furrowed. After all, Robert had mentioned his room was a mess and it seemed so natural to… This is the frightening thing I’ve noticed about my homegrown hunks. Females don’t require enough ““real’’ help from them. My sons do not have to employ many of the skills I’ve so painstakingly taught them during our time together. Young women take one look at the guys and stand in line to become the chosen one to clean rooms, pick up laundry, fry chicken, lend money, drop dates with girlfriends, rent videos, treat for drinks.

This is not the way it was supposed to be–the reason I read 50 books on raising males in the new world order. This is not the payoff I would like for spending years in a support group for single moms with sons. But I’m realistic. I’ve done my part. It’s up to the others–the girlfriends, cohabitants, main squeezes or wives–to insist that the hunks carry their fair share of the domestic load. Despite catchy commercials to the contrary, bringing home the bacon and frying it can get irksome. Besides, the hunks –like many of their cohorts–have seen their moms work hard to survive economically. They know what women can do; they respect that ability and–at some subterranean level–they’re hard-wired to help. We, the Elvis-era moms, have done the best we can. It’s now up to Tiffany, Kendra and Kimberly.