Endless Cleaning

It seems that my response to the boys leaving is to clean. And this is surely pathalogical.

I walked into the bathroom and didn't recognise it, hardly a smidgeon of dirt anywhere, no odd bits of plastic wrapper, no rusting tins of shaving gel (though the rust marks remain despite many happy hours of scrubbing) and no random toothbrushes dripping slime into the sink.

Where am I?

The kitchen is the latest to come under fire, with a clean fridge outside & in - spooky, a clean floor - unrecognisable, and a vague feeling of something missing. Which of course there is. My boys have gone, and although they'll be back to stay here & there, they will never again be living alongside me.

[There is a faint possibility that I am also regretting the loss of the "ordering" days, when My Word was Law. Now I have to be reasonable and only "suggest" things, even though - of course - I am always right.]

It is also a bit wierd what I find when I clean. One boy had adopted some outlandish clothing to use for fancydress parties; it seems he has taken some back with him and left the more outrageous stuff. (A long, mud-coloured, shiney off-the-shoulder number was the worst - not sure I could face the charity shop again if I palmed it off on them.... perhaps I could dress up in it and pace the streets at night clasping my hands together and wailing laments? it has that look about it.)

There is also that thing with the socks. Somehow, when my eldest is around, the sock pairs go haywire. I notice this because - and I know this sounds odd, but... now he has gone all the socks come out of the wash in pairs again, whereas for the past 2 months they have been completely random - even mine!!!