You know it’s time for the Semi-Annual Culling of the Kids’ Closets when you find Pee-Wee Herman in an underwear drawer.
As I opened my son’s dresser drawer yesterday, I jumped as though I was an expendible character in a horror movie — perhaps Laundry of Chucky. Even after 12 years of motherhood, I just don’t always anticipate stumbling upon such things as Pee Wee Herman staring at me from among a pile of boxer shorts and white crew socks. But there he was, and there went my Sunday afternoon mellow.
The rest of my son’s room has been blissfully uncluttered for much of the summer. Now and then, his bed goes unmade for hours or even a day or two. But I just start singing “Kung Fu Fighting” or “Copacabana” and suddenly, he’s speed straightening his room. Anything not to hear about Lola, “she was a showgirl,” from his mother, with Dad as back-up singer. Hmmmm. Maybe we need dance moves?
But stumbling upon Pee Wee was a sign to me that it’s time to figure out which clothes can stay and which are too small and/or too ratty, the nicest of which will be donated to the church. That way there’s more room for things that fit.
So I whipped through his closet until I had a pile of “Wow, that hasn’t fit in two years” and “Is that ketchup, or blood?” I put them in large plastic bags and we hauled them downstairs to the dining room, where I’d just pawned off boxes of “I have no bookshelves for these” and “I read this four years ago” on the annual library book sale.
As for the drawer, I haven’t had a chance to cull it yet. Frankly, I’m afraid to open it back up. I mean, who knows what I’ll find there? Oh, Pee Wee knows. That’s who. And that’s a little scary.