It is no exaggeration to say that I would rather have distended bowel than to move house.

And if we agree that moving oneself is a massive upheaval, then moving ones mother is something else, entirely.

This past week, my mother has, at age 88, decided to downsize and move into a lovely retirement community. Because she is leaving a three-bedroom home for a one-bedroom apartment, draconian measures and cut-throat decisions, at least in her view, have been made.

Now, Mom, I said, clearing out her chipped and faded everyday plates. Surely you dont want to take any of this stuff with you.

But I use them at lunch! she cried, wounded.

But youre taking only your very best furniture. I tried to reason. I mean, youve got a Chippendale tallboy and a Sheraton writing desk. I just dont see packing a coffee mug with Tryon Federal Bank stamped across the front of it when youve got piles of Wedgewood.

I like to have a little more than a cup of tea each morning, not too much, but just a little more. This mug is the perfect size.

The mug, I swear, smirked at me. It was then dutifully bubble-wrapped and set to the side.

Ill get you, mug. I hissed when my mother was out of ear-shot. Just you wait.

The next task before me was the emptying of the massive tallboys in order to decrease its weight so that the movers, with perhaps the addition of performance-enhancing drugs, would be be physically capable of muscling it out of the house onto the truck.

Working upwards, I opened the first drawer and pulled out scads of ancient linens: hand embroidered runners that hadnt seen the light of day since the Victorian era, a Christening robe that had belonged to my grandmother in her infancy all these were carefully folded and removed. The second drawer contained more of the same and the third drawer was stuffed full of well-used and broken Christmas decorations red candles snapped in half, frayed ribbon, bits of moth-eaten felt.

Ya gotta just motor through this stuff, I said, tossing most of the contents into a rapidly filling garbage bag at my side. My mother watched, incredulous of my speed. Otherwise, well be here for weeks, I added, pulling open the fourth drawer, then hesitating.

Inside, carefully rolled and tied closed with ribbon, was every piece of artwork ever attempted by her children. Amateurish landscapes, hand-made birthday cards, and one which, in particular, stung.

It had been a pencil and watercolor wash I had done in the fourth grade of George Washington, resplendent in uniform, copied from an engraving within the Encyclopedia Britannica for a history project. Inheriting my mothers flair for illustration, it was quite well executed and that had been the problem.

Hauled before the class, my teacher accused me of tracing the drawing and gave me an F.

But I didnt trace it! I had cried. I copied it, but I didnt trace it. The one in the book is only a few inches big this one takes up the whole poster.

No child can draw that well. said Mrs. Russell, flatly. I cant draw that well. Take this note home to your mother explaining your grade and take your seat.

I will never forget the humiliation of being unfairly brandished a cheat over something that, only moments before, I had been so proud. The fact that my mother, once I returned home and seeing both the note and my fallen face, had telephoned the teacher in a fury to confirm my innocence, did little to soothe the wound that had been long forgotten until I opened the drawer.

This, I said, rolling up George. I think should be kept.

Yes. Mom nodded. You can put it next to the mug.