I think my youngest son, Buzz, is getting used to my oldest son, Scott, being gone. He still lugs around some of the things Scott left behind, including the hideous stuffed toy armadillo I was really, really hoping he'd take with him.

But Buzz stood in the doorway of my bedroom last night and said, "It's time to move on, Mom."

"Honey, Scott just moved away, he hasn't died," I said.

"I know," said Buzz solemnly. "But I want his room."

There's nothing like vacant real estate to ease separation anxiety. I'm a little hesitant to turn his room over to one of the other boys, which is really incredibly stupid, since Scott never slept in that room anyway. It was a place to pile old CDs, vague and archaic computer parts, and the golf clubs we haven't used in three years.

When I left for college, I had my parents' old room. After my dad died, Mom didn't want to sleep in the big, king-size bed in the big, second story room anymore, so I eventually took it over, bed and all. I loved that bed. There was room for me, two of the cats, one of the dogs, a half-dozen paperbacks, a bowl of Häagen Dazs, my drawing board and the basket of laundry that never seemed to get put away.

When I came home from college the first time, I bounced upstairs to throw my junk on my nice, king-sized bed -- and it was gone. Instead, there were two little twin beds, still wearing the puce and puke green comforters they'd worn when they were in my old room, my "little girl" room, from 10 years earlier.

"Oh," said Mom, as soon as she could decipher my incoherent babbling rage. "I gave your brother the bed."

My head said this was a good idea -- he was a newlywed college student with an unfurnished house and low income. I was living in a tiny dorm room in Memphis. He needed the bed. I didn't.

My heart told me my mother loved him more than me and I sulked about the stupid bed for the next four years.

So I've been dragging my feet about boxing up Scott's left-behinds and turning the room over to Buzz. I can't stand the thought of Scott coming home and thinking I love Buzz more because I gave him his room.

"Honey..." my husband chided me. "He'd actually have to go into that room to know it wasn't his anymore."

That's true. Come to think of it, Scott would probably be more upset to come home and find Buzz sleeping on the couch -- that's his bed. And to get Buzz out of the couch and into his own bed, I guess I'm going to have to move him to Scott's old room.

I dread it. I dread going through the magazines and clothes he left behind, throwing away the junk and trying to decide what he would want to keep. And I think I'm really dreading it because I know I'm not going to get weepy and wistful as I do this -- I'm just going to get ticked off.

He was supposed to do this very job the week before he moved and never got around to it.

I have no doubt I will throw away something important. Years from now, he's going to be able give his version of the "I used to have Superman No. 1 but my Mom threw away my comics collection" speech, which will make everyone groan and roll their eyes and wonder how foolish his mother must be.

And I'm just going to smile. Who am I to deprive him of a valuable life experience?

I think I'll start with that armadillo ...

-- Mary Reeves is a staff writer for the Times-Gazette. She can be reached at (931) 684-1200, ext. 215, or by e-mail at mreeves@t-g.com. This column is scheduled to print every Wednesday.