Just shut the door and walk away

When our oldest son, Vernon, left for college last August, it was apparent that neatness wasn't on his mind.

With little or no regard for tidy piles or vacuuming, he left his room looking as if his brothers had just torn it apart in an attempt to locate the remote control.

It took me until mid-September, but I finally cleaned it up. I changed his sheets, made his bed and removed clutter. It took me hours to get through it all, but I organized his desk, tidied the nightstand and gave myself a pat on my dusty back.

It wasn't until I opened his closet door that I snapped. For all of the clutter, the debris, and the ever-loving laundry that he'd left strewn about his room couldn't compare to what presented itself inside the vestibule that was once a lovely walk-in closet.

Being a woman of great integrity and honor, I suppressed curse words, shut the door and walked away. Judge me if you must, but you show me a woman with the strength to tackle it then and there, and I'll show you a woman who remembers to take her Vitameatavegamin.

My in-laws came to stay in October, a cousin drove through in December and a family friend stayed the weekend last winter. "Make yourselves at home," we told them all. "Relax, have a good time, roam about freely but whatever you do, do not open that closet door!"

It was my goal to make Vernon tackle the task when next he came home. Although he graced us with his presence at Christmas, a long weekend in February, and was rumored to have been about the abode over Spring Break, the closet remained the same.

I stood in front of the door one night, sporting old clothes and a pair of rubber gloves. I rolled my shoulders, cracked my neck and did a couple of deep knee bends. After a quick stretch to the left and one to the right, I knew I was as ready as I was ever going to be.

I've cleaned many messes in my day. I mopped up after The Great Spaghetti Fight of 1994, bounced back from a visit by the Taylor Twins in 1996, and thought I had reached the summit during Little Charlie's lemonade spill in 2008. But even the Broken-Washer episode that followed our Disney vacation didn't prepare me for what I was to encounter on the other side of the door in Vernon's closet.

Although I don't remember screaming, the family ran to my aid. "Is it a bug?" one of the children asked as he rounded the corner.

"Is it a snake?" inquired another brother.

But it was young Huey who pegged it — "Nah, she just got reacquainted with Vernon's closet."

They all stood behind me and peered at the mayhem inside the door. And even Little Charlie who takes messes to a whole new level was appalled.

You discover a lot about your young adult when you clean their closet. For instance, I learned that at some point my son must have taken up snorkeling because he had all the gear to delve into the waters up to and including two very large fins. Then there was a chin-up bar, a mini-stepper, and a bi-axial chest press.

Although we didn't know he'd joined a country western band, it must have been true for he had a guitar amplifier, a plethora of music books, and a documentary about Waylon Jennings.

Then, of course, there were the golf clubs, the Clean Swing golf club shammy and let's not forget the fine collection of what appeared to be socks to keep one's clubs warm.

No serious golfer would be without those!

Alas, I was not to be dissuaded. I made a dirty clothes pile, a hand-me-down stack, a section for the snorkeling gear, and dedicated an entire subdivision to the world of Tiger Woods.

He came home just last weekend and I don't know what he expected when he opened the closet door, but I doubt that it was an empty floor and clothes on hangers. What I saw was a light that appeared to shine down from the heavens as a choir of angels sang out "Hallelujah!"

Apparently, Vernon saw an invasion of privacy, an intrusion to his exclusion.

When his brother walked by in what Vernon suddenly deemed to be his "favorite Tshirt," he looked at me and simply said, "Oh no, you didn't!"

I did, and his irritation was better for me than a shot of Vitametavegimin.

Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book "Are We There Yet?" You can reach her at www.loriclinch.com.

Editor's note: Lori Clinch, whose column appears in Greater Media Newspapers, won second place in a national competition for American Mothers Inc. for her essay titled "Moms, too, feel the agony of defeat."

Clinch's column is based on her family's escapades, which provide her with ongoing topics.

Clinch's syndicated column appears in newspapers across the country.