Letting go of childish things isn’t so easy, for me at least

With the boydults away at a festival in Spain, I take a week off work to gut their rooms, redecorate, find and shampoo the carpets. By day two, a re-estimate is necessary: I’ll concentrate on Eldest’s. After locating the bed, I forage underneath. Boxers, beer bottles, champagne bottles (!), song lyrics, £6 (pocketed) hair balls big enough to choke a cougar, and a tooth. Not a cute milk peg, more massive adult molar, less tooth fairy, more CSI. But body parts and bottles are no bother, it’s the rest I’m conflicted about.

“Mother, just throw it all out,” says Youngest, who once handed over her My Little Ponies with their chopped fringes to the charity shop without a backward glance. Unlike me who couldn’t pass the shop for fear I’d go in and buy them back.

“Eldest’s Harry Potter books? Better keep them?” I say.

“No!” says Youngest, who isn’t Harry potty. Not for her Eldest’s excitement at each book’s release, or Middle’s terror of Voldemort. I put them back on the shelf. Youngest shakes her head. “What about these animals?” I ask her. “Aw, they used to say amerals,” I say. She rolls her eyes at the box of plastic creatures and I remember when the boys wouldn’t leave the house without a favourite tiger or monkey clutched in a chubby fist.

“Chuck them,” she says. “Definitely.”

“They used to play with them all the time.” “Yeah, used to.”

I push them in a cupboard and press on. Two days clearing, two days painting, then a seven hour carpet shampooathon and Eldest’s room is spotless. With two days for the carpets to dry and their childhood to be reinstated, I’ve nipped out for underbed storage boxes when my phone pings.

“Hey Mum. Are you at home?” It’s Middle from Spain.

What’ll it be? Lost mobile, wallet, plane ticket, passport, all of the above? “We’re back, could you collect us?” Aw no, their childhood is missing. “Sorry, I’m out,” I say. “See you at home. Don’t let Eldest in his room.” I race back. When I get there Eldest is in bed. “Sorry,” I call through the door. All his memories are in bags. “Naw, I like it. It was a mess,” he replies. Great, he doesn’t care. It’s me who can’t let go and chuck it all away. But I know someone who can. This is a job for Youngest.