Once upon a time, there was a boy and his room. On our first night in our new home, nine years ago, he fell asleep surrounded by mountain-high boxes. Before he drifted into slumber, I read him a chapter from his beloved book, The Stinky Cheese Man and Other Fairly Stupid Tales. It was packed alongside his teddy bear and the new checkered comforter, and I’d labeled the box “Open First.”
After the story, I lay beside him, the lights still aglow. “Mom, I’m not ready for you to go,” he said, clinging to the moment. To soothe him, I pressed the concealed button on his teddy bear’s heart, triggering a 30-second recording of me singing snippets of “Help.” This had been his lullaby during those sleep-deprived early days when other songs slipped my mind:
“When I was younger, so much younger than today
I never needed anybody’s help in any way…”
As I watched him succumb to sleep, I marveled at his golden lashes that curled at the tips and his flawless skin. He was caught in the beautiful balance between innocent wonder and the rebellious years ahead—a time I wished to savor forever. What a boy he was, a magical 9-year-old. His laughter was contagious, and his tears tugged at my heartstrings. If he had been selling dirt door-to-door, I would have bought a truckload just for the joy of his smile.
We sang together, him pressing the button repeatedly until he finally drifted off, allowing me to spring into action. I had resolved to unpack every box in his room to surprise him with a transformed space when he awoke. The months leading up to our 1400-mile move had been tough; his father had left for work while we finished the school year. That winter was harsh, marked by relentless ice storms and bittersweet farewells to friends and beloved places. I wanted to repay him with joy, to create a room that would spark the same happiness he’d brought me.
Fortunately, he was a heavy sleeper. I hung clothes in the closet, arranged capes and hats on wooden pegs, and decorated the walls with pictures. Books found their way onto shelves, toys nestled into his red wooden wagon, and I proudly displayed his Lego masterpieces. Trading cards were stored neatly in a shoebox under the bed, and a moon-and-stars rug adorned the floor. Above his bed, I hung a cheerful yellow Styrofoam sun.
By 4 a.m., I was done. I even flattened the empty boxes and took them to our garage, filled to the brim. Before collapsing into bed, I set my alarm for 8 a.m. My heart raced at the thought of witnessing his delight when he opened his eyes.
At 7 a.m., I awoke to a gentle touch on my arm. “Mom,” he said softly. “Wake up, please.”
“Why are you up so early?” I asked, rubbing sleep from my eyes.
“Something happened while I was sleeping,” he replied excitedly.
“What’s that?”
“My room is nice now! The boxes are gone. You have to come see!”
Fast forward to last week: after dropping him off for his first year of college, I found myself packing up that same room. Some items would be tossed, some donated, and a few kept for nostalgia. His Legos and trading cards remained, but most of his childhood treasures had been replaced or tucked away over the years. The walls bore sketches and photographs, while his favorite posters, including several of The Beatles, had made their way to his dorm. His closet was mostly bare, holding only a few cherished pieces—my husband’s old judo uniform, the wool blazer given to him as a toddler, and the faux leather jacket he wore while pretending to be Elvis.
As I vacuumed the curtains, bedding, and remnants of dried toothpaste from the carpet, I dusted off the smiling sun overhead. The button on the bear had long since 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.”
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In summary, this nostalgic look back captures the bittersweet transition from childhood to adulthood, highlighting the moments that shape our lives. As we unearth memories, we also prepare for new beginnings.
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