Delving into the dresser of a twelve-year old boy...

Boys. There are all sorts of poems out there about what little boys are made of—I’ve got a whole new drawer full of ideas. Dirty laundry scattered on the floor, library books with their pages folded over, wet towels left to rot—need I go on?

It’s been, what? A month and a half since school let out? So a few days ago I was helping my twelve-year pack for camp. I’m one of those moms who pretty much expects him to figure these things out, but I went over the list with him the night before he was due to leave. Then I found them! Apples!

See, I’m also one of those moms who requires my kids to pack a healthy snack with their school lunch every day. Kennan usually takes an apple and like the amazing boy that he is, it never comes home with him. Or so I thought.

I know moms are not supposed to mention these things, but he needed eight underwear for camp and they were MIA. I knew that was impossible, since I’m also the one who also does the laundry around here, so I went on a search and rescue mission. Into the depths of his dresser…

The first thing I noticed was the scent of apples. It was a pleasant surprise—I surmised he must have found appley scented candles or something and shoved it in there. Not! There, in the front of his drawer, lay several apples. Like elderly women, they sat there, their skin perhaps a bit wrinkled, but dignified none the less. I scooped them up and turned to the boy for an explanation. He got a roguish twinkle in his eye and shrugged his shoulders and said, “I guess I just like the smell of apples, mom.”

I couldn’t help it, the corner of my mouth twitched before I could express the outrage that every mother should have. I settled for an eye roll and continued the search. The underwear, were eventually tracked down,still stuffed into another suitcase from a previous camping trip—I did mention he’s a twelve-year-old boy, right?

Now he’s been gone to camp for a few days. I walk past his room and it seems so empty. No wet towels rotting on the ground, no dirty clothes lying in a heap, no library books with the corners folded over. Even his bug cage is empty and his jack knives are gone—but when I walk into the room, I can still smell the scent of apples. It’ll linger until he gets home next week and I can hardly wait.