I offered to help clean Dearest Son’s room this weekend because, well, I can’t remember why. When he was little, I’d clean his room (and Princess’s too), then rearrange it and do a “reveal,” and their ickle hearts would soar. It was very gratifying back then.
But Dearest is 17 now, so I gave him a 24-hour warning, which he correctly interpreted as “get rid of everything you don’t want your sainted mother to see.” That would be stuff like decaying food, moldy socks, the mouse that was supposed to get better…
At any rate, I entered the room, which he deemed clean. Granted, I could write my name in dust, but it was kinda sorta not bad. Still, here are some of the things I found as I ordered, pushed, rearranged and lifted.
The book he wrote when he was seven.
All the notes I’ve written him when I’ve gone away for an overnight, saved in a coffee can.
$1.32 in change.
A melted glass bottle.
A TARDIS made of duct tape.
In other words, the usual.