Before the break started, our middle son – a sophomore in college – started bringing things home from his dorm when he made trips for Thanksgiving and other appointments close to home.
Exactly how much “stuff” he crammed into that tiny room remains a mystery, but as moving day approached, he convinced us he couldn’t fit it all in his car in one trip.
“Mom, will you go with me?” he asked. “No way I can fit all of this in my car.”
“Sure,” I said, wondering why he brought it all – or most of it – home in the first place.
He began sorting his clothes and washing the additional laundry he brought home. That laundry included his bed sheets and comforter. Gross, I know. How long was this sitting in the laundry bag in his room? Weeks. Weeks, I tell you.
“Any chance this is the first time you’ve washed these since you moved in last August?” I asked him.
He paused, “…No.”
Noticing the hesitation, I asked, “Any chance you just want me to come up with you to help you make your bed?”
Another pause. Busted.
The lofted beds in the dorm rooms are an absolute nightmare to make. Ask me how I know.
“Mom, they are so hard! I can’t ever get it right,” he said.
Knowing that he requested my company not because he loves me or will miss me, but because he doesn’t want to make his bed, I started pointing out that we could most certainly make all of his “stuff” fit in his car.
“Nope, I am telling you my car is packed,” he protested while we stuffed sheets, towels and winter clothes into bags.
He insisted that no amount of rearranging would accommodate his many totes, crates, bags and other necessary items.
Finally, my husband and I relented and put the last remaining items in our SUV. We made the two-hour drive north and pulled up in front of the dorm behind our son in his “packed” car.
While he went inside to get a cart to haul his stash in, I popped his trunk open. And I stopped and stared. I stared at the trunk that was “packed” with one item. One. Item. A set of golf clubs. You read that right - golf clubs, that I am certain he won’t need anytime soon, because, well, it’s January and he doesn’t go to school in Florida. Yet, there they were.
What’s the saying? Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me? Well, shame on me because I should have checked his trunk when he said the car was “packed.” The lone set of gold clubs left room enough for at least two body bags.
And the smirk I got when I called him out on his sneaky tactics told me one thing: this mama’s boy may have actually wanted me there to see him off for his next semester.
So, I did what any mother would have done: I made his bed.
Motherhood, Part II, is a recurring column in the News-Sun.
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