This is a tale about a boy and the room he called his own.
Nine years ago, on our first night in a new house, he fell asleep surrounded by towering boxes. Before drifting off, I read to him from his cherished book, The Stinky Cheese Man and Other Fairly Stupid Tales. It was packed alongside his teddy bear and a fresh checkered comforter, labeled “Open First.”
After the story, I settled beside him with the lights still aglow. “I’m not ready for you to go yet,” he said, and so I pressed the hidden button on his teddy bear’s heart. It played a 30-second recording of me singing a few lines from “Help,” my sleep-deprived lullaby from his infancy.
As I watched him succumb to slumber, I marveled at his golden lashes and perfect skin. He was at that enchanting age between innocent wonder and the turmoil of adolescence—the Time of Bliss. What a magical 9-year-old he was! His laughter was infectious, and his tears tugged at my heartstrings. If he were selling dirt, and I had never met him, just one glance at his face, and I would’ve bought a truckload.
We sang together, him repeatedly pushing the button until he finally drifted into dreamland, allowing me to commence my project. I was determined to unpack every box in his room, transforming it overnight so that he would awaken to a delightful surprise. The preceding six months had been tough; his father had moved ahead for work while we stayed behind to finish the school year. That winter was one for the books—ice storms galore and tearful goodbyes to friends and familiar places. I wanted to bring him joy and return some of the bliss he had given me simply by being himself.
Fortunately, he was a sound sleeper. I hung clothes in his closet, capes and hats on pegs, adorned the walls with pictures, placed books on shelves, and filled his red wooden wagon with toys. I showcased his Lego creations, tucked trading cards in a shoebox under the bed, and spread his moon-and-stars rug on the floor. Above his bed, I hung a cheerful yellow Styrofoam sun grinning down at him.
By 4 a.m., I was done. I even flattened the boxes and stored them in our packed garage. Before I retired for the night, I set my alarm for 8 a.m. I couldn’t wait to see his face when he woke up.
At 7 a.m., he was standing next to my bed. “Mom,” he said, gently shaking my arm. “Mom, wake up, please.”
I sat up, surprised. “Why are you awake so early?”
“Because something happened while I was sleeping,” he replied.
“What?” I asked, intrigued.
“My room got nice. The boxes are gone!” he exclaimed. “You have to come see!”
Fast forward to last week, when I found myself packing up that very room after taking him to college for his freshman year. Some items were tossed, others donated, and a few kept for nostalgia. His Lego sets and trading cards remained, but most things had been replaced or stored over the years. On the walls, only a handful of drawings and pictures lingered; he had sent his favorite posters, including several of The Beatles, to his dorm. The closet was nearly bare, save for a few garments wrapped in plastic—the judo uniform that belonged to his father as a child, the wool blazer my mother gifted him, and that tiny faux leather jacket he wore while pretending to be Elvis. I vacuumed the curtains, bedding, and even the remnants of dried toothpaste from the carpet.
I dusted the sun with the smiling face. The teddy bear’s button had long lost its magic, but I sat on his bed and sang the lullaby one last time:
Help me if you can, I’m feeling down
And I do appreciate you being ’round
Help me get my feet back on the ground
Won’t you, please, please help me?
Help me, help me, ooh.
This article was originally published on November 6, 2014.
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In summary, this heartfelt narrative showcases the bittersweet journey of a mother as she navigates the joys and challenges of raising her son, from the magical moments of childhood to the poignant transition of sending him off to college.