The kids moved out. Their stuff didn’t.

As college classes begin this fall, mothers everywhere will be joining the ranks of the “empty nesters.”

I’ve always thought this was a misleading term. The child may be gone, but judging by his bedroom, absolutely nothing else went with him.

Without an explanation, most visitors to your home would never know the child had left at all.

Which brings us to the first order of business for the newly minted empty nester: decluttering the part of the house supposedly vacated by the departed child.

Initially, Mom puts a positive spin on this job by reimagining all the wonderful things she can do with the new space.

Home office? Yoga room? Maybe even a satellite closet with a dressing room.

The possibilities seem endless.

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Then you open the closet.

It soon becomes apparent that while your child moved out, approximately 87% of his belongings did not.

Yes, he took his laptop, favorite sneakers and all the good phone chargers in the house. What he left behind were fourteen participation trophies, a broken lacrosse stick, sixteen hoodies, assorted stuffed animals and a box labeled “IMPORTANT” containing a stack of Pokémon cards and several Taco Bell receipts.

Apparently, “moving out” now means establishing a new residence while continuing to operate a storage facility at your parents’ home.

Decluttering a child’s room quickly becomes an archaeological dig through your parenting history.

The top layer of the closet contains the most recent artifacts of teenage life. Dig a little deeper and you encounter evidence of the preteen years. Eventually, you reach the really dangerous layer when they were toddlers and young children.

This is where you find the stuffed animals.

My youngest son had a Bob the Builder pillow he carried with him everywhere. I came across it while cleaning and considered donating it.

Could I really do that?

Probably not.

Okay, definitely not.

What kind of mother throws out Bob the Builder?

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For me, there is also the trophy problem.

My sons played baseball as well as other sports for years, so our game room contains enough trophies to suggest that we raised Serena Williams, Tom Brady and Michael Phelps simultaneously.

We have trophies that were genuinely earned and, of course, the famous participation trophies.

The participation trophies were fairly easy to let go. I asked my son about the others. He wanted a couple but was perfectly happy to part with most of them.

In this case, I was the problem.

A FIRST PLACE trophy?

Throw it away?

That seemed criminal.

So, we still have it.

The same goes for my oldest son’s collection of books.  According to him, he may still read them someday and he has no room for them in his apartment.  In the meantime, you have good reason to contemplate opening a lending library.

That’s when you discover one of the great conundrums of empty-nest decluttering. There are things you think should definitely go that your child insists on keeping for sentimental reasons, and things your child is perfectly happy to throw away that you suddenly decide belong in the Smithsonian.

If you come across something you don't want but think your child might, be careful not to make the rookie mistake.

Never ask, “Do you want this?”

Do not ask that question unless you are fully committed to keeping the item until you depart this life.

You can hold up a T-shirt from a soccer camp your son attended when he was nine.

“Do you want this?”

“Yeah. Keep it.”

“You haven't worn it in fifteen years.”

“I might want it.”

He will not ask about that shirt again. He will not look at it. He may not even remember the conversation.

But that shirt is now yours until probate (which is when it becomes his problem again).

On a happier note, decluttering your child's room will finally solve several mysteries that have plagued your household for years.

You didn't lose all those forks. Your husband wasn't secretly throwing away drinking glasses. And apparently there wasn't a nationwide shortage of phone chargers.

They were all in your child's room.

Cups. Plates. Silverware. Towels. Scissors. Chargers. Possibly that bowl you've been looking for since Thanksgiving 2017.

At some point, you're no longer decluttering.

You're processing a crime scene.

Unfortunately, as the excavation continues, you begin to realize something disturbing.

The problem may not be your child.

It may be you.

He doesn't want the third-place baseball trophy from 2009.

You do.

He doesn't remember the stuffed animal you can't possibly part with from his toddler years.

You do.

He has no idea why you've saved the ceramic handprint he made in kindergarten.

You do.

Because somewhere along the way, this stopped being a decluttering project and became a rose colored highlight reel of your child's life.

There's the baseball glove you drove all over town looking for the night before his first game. The school picture from the year he lost both front teeth. And the Mother's Day card where he wrote that you were the “best mom in the hole world.”

You know perfectly well it's spelled wrong.

You're keeping it anyway.

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So much for the yoga room.

After hours of sorting, donating, reminiscing and occasionally becoming emotional over objects your own child has no recollection of ever owning, you finally accomplish what you set out to do.

You fill three garbage bags.

Then you go to Target and buy six storage bins.

I've decided that's why they call it an empty nest. Eventually the kids leave. Their nest apparently has chosen to age in place.