My 21 year old son popped home from college yesterday for a few hours and took a shower before heading back to campus. I walked into his bedroom this morning, fully expecting to find a wet towel lying on the floor, because finding wet towels on bedroom floors is nothing new around here. In fact, it’s a critical part of the mother-son ritual in our home. My son announces he is about to take a shower and I say, “hang your towel on the hook in your bathroom when you’re done,” or occasionally, “throw your dirty towel in the laundry,” but what I never say is, “leave your wet towel on the floor in your bedroom so it stinks up the carpet, okay?” And yet, after nearly every shower taken in my home by this fellow (and his older brother) I find a wet towel on the floor. Or worse, on the bed. And it annoys me. Every. Single. Time.
Thanks for reminding me I’ve got it pretty easy these days.
My sons are grown men. I should be proud and happy and embracing life, but after 25 years of stay-at-home-motherhood, I confess, I sometimes feel irrelevant. I find myself pining for days gone by, forgetting life back then wasn’t always a scene plucked from a Norman Rockwell painting. I suppose missing them has a tendency to cloud my memory. So thank you, Mom-Sitting-Behind-Me-at-the-Baseball-Game-Last-Weekend, for reminding me l’ve got it pretty easy.