This tale revolves around a boy and his room. Nine years ago, on our first night in this house, he went to bed surrounded by towering boxes. Before he drifted off, I read him a chapter from his favorite book, The Stinky Cheese Man and Other Fairly Stupid Tales. I had packed it alongside his teddy bear and cozy checkered comforter, labeling the box “Open First.”
After the story, I lay beside him with the lights still on. He wasn’t ready to turn off the switch or for me to leave just yet. So, I pressed the hidden button on his teddy bear’s heart—the one that played a 30-second clip of me singing a few lines from “Help.” This lullaby had become our soothing ritual during his infancy when my sleep-deprived brain could hardly recall any other song:
“When I was younger, so much younger than today,
I never needed anybody’s help in any way…”
I watched as he grew drowsy, his golden lashes fluttering down like the sun setting. I knew he was at that magical age, just before the stormy teenage years, what I liked to call the Time of Bliss. I wanted to savor every moment. What a boy he was, a wonderful 9-year-old full of laughter and curiosity. If he were selling dirt door to door, just one look at that face would make me buy a truckload of it.
As we sang, he pressed the button repeatedly until he finally succumbed to sleep, allowing me to get to work. I was determined to unpack all the boxes in his room so that when he woke up, he’d find a delightful surprise. The past six months leading up to our 1400-mile move had been challenging: his dad had gone ahead for work, while we stayed back to finish school. That winter was brutal—one ice storm after another and tough goodbyes to friends and familiar places. I wanted to bring back some joy to him and create a space where he could play and dream like he did in his old room, where he built Lego creatures and acted out stories.
Thankfully, he slept soundly. I hung clothes in his closet, capes and hats on wooden pegs, arranged pictures on the walls, and filled shelves with books. I placed toys in his red wooden wagon, displayed his Lego creations, and tucked trading cards under his bed. I even laid down his moon-and-stars rug and hung the smiling yellow Styrofoam sun above his bed.
By 4 a.m., I was done. I flattened the boxes and stashed them in our cluttered garage. Before heading to bed, I set my alarm for 8 a.m.—I couldn’t wait to see his reaction when he awoke.
At 7 a.m., he stood beside my bed.
“Mom,” he said, gently shaking my arm. “Mom, wake up, please.”
I blinked awake. “Why are you up so early?”
“Cause something happened while I was sleeping,” he said, excitement bubbling in his voice.
“What is it?”
“My room got nice! The boxes are gone! You gotta see!”
Fast forward to last week, when I packed up that same room, sending him off to college to start his freshman year. Some of his belongings are being tossed, others donated, and some kept for nostalgia. The Legos and trading cards remain, but most other items have been replaced or boxed away over the years. He still had a few drawings on the walls, and he mailed his cherished Beatles posters to his dorm. His closet was nearly empty, save for a few items wrapped in plastic: my husband’s childhood judo clothes, the wool blazer my mother gifted him, the tiny faux leather jacket he wore while pretending to be Elvis, and his honor-society tees.
I vacuumed the curtains, the bedding, and dried toothpaste off the carpet. I dusted the smiling sun one last time. The button on the bear had long lost its charm, but I sat on his bed and sang the lullaby one final 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 journey of change reminds me of the joyful moments we’ve shared and how precious time can be.
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