Enough dirty underwear littered the floor to give the impression of a frat house with some weird hazing ritual that demands pledges drop trou wherever they happen to be any time a whistle is blown.
Shoes were scattered in much the same way, with one shoe from a pair discarded on the steps near the front door while its match was kicked under the kitchen table on the other side of the house.
The bathrooms were out of toilet paper, even though there’s plenty stored in the laundry room.
Requests for clean socks were second only to telling me they’d missed me. (As in “ImissedyouMom, do you have any clean socks for me?”)
That’s not all of the mess that happened while I was away last week, but no one really wants to hear all the gory details.
This is not to say that the house falls apart without me and that my boys and husband can’t make it alone. No smug satisfaction in the mess I’ll invariably have to pick up.
The house would mostly look like this even if I had been here.
Because last week was THE week of my boys’ activities. That one week every season when everything overlaps and once a year/season activities occur. A perfect storm of activity, making me cringe and wish the timing of my trip could be different.
But my husband and my boys were capable of handling it. Getting where they needed to be and doing the things they had to… the things they really wanted to do. That in itself was a huge accomplishment and may have involved a three page typed schedule.
They did it.
And that’s what mattered about last week.
Not that they left a mess behind.
Messes happen. Whether I’m here or not.
And messes can be cleaned up. Whether it’s by Mom when she’s back home or by the kids (you know I’m not touching that dirty underwear) or Dad.
No one is really going to remember the mess, but they will remember all the amazing things they got to do.
So walking back home into a mess really isn’t a big deal. But hearing about all of their adventures is.