No, not my bedroom. Pretty sure the man would take issue. This one belongs to the oldest son. The quest for independence. Coming back home when friends decide they don't make good roommates. Leaving again when the idea hatches with another friend. I'm thinking there was an actual lease signed this time. Maybe it will last longer than 3 months.
After the great discovery of incompatibility, the boy moved back home about three weeks ago. Not sure why but the dirt bike came home first. Somehow, it was more important than the bed, clothes, or anything else. It was also then that I discovered there was no helmet to pair with the dirt bike. But that was another ride on Mama's Crazy Train all together.
When the boy left, there was a lightening fast round of musical bedrooms amongst the other kids. And that's how my former office/adopted girl's bedroom became my walk-in closet. When the boy told me he was coming back home-with only about 72 hours notice-there was really no option other than the basement.
The great cavern under the house. The dumping ground for all things we can't bear to part with. The home of the ever-expanding-take-over-the-world piles of laundry. And the home of the multiple litter boxes. There just really isn't a lot of space down there. At least, not that's very organized.
But being 20, that didn't bother him. He shoved things aside, dumped his bed in the space created and dumped all his clothes on an old love seat next to the weight bench. And that's where everything stayed until he decided to move out again last weekend.
Except when he left, all his laundry stayed behind. Being the wonderful mother I am-or believe myself to be-I graciously started the wash/dry/fold process that his clothes likely hadn't seen since his initial departure in March. It was impossible to determine what was clean and what was dirty, he said. After sorting the piles, I believed him. And wanted to go sanitize in a tub of bleach. It's no wonder the basement had taken on a new odor.
He had an entire load of work clothes that looked and smelled like they'd marinated in cow shit for a week in the hot Idaho sun. Yes, cow shit. Of course, it was all mixed in with all his other clothes. I've never used so much detergent and hot water washing clothes in my life.
Oh the things we do for our children. And my washer still hasn't forgiven me. I swear it tried to lock its own door when it heard me coming the other night. Honestly, I can't blame it.
Footnote: I was going to include a nice photo procured from Google to help illustrate this post. In looking for just the right one, I've managed to ruin my desire for breakfast. You're welcome.