Updated: July 30, 2019
Originally Published: November 6, 2014
This narrative revolves around a young boy and his sanctuary. On that fateful night nine years ago, during our initial evening in this new home, boxes loomed large around him. Before he drifted off, I read him a chapter from his beloved storybook, The Stinky Cheese Man and Other Fairly Stupid Tales. I had ensured it was packed alongside his cherished teddy bear and a fresh checkered comforter, clearly labeled “Open First.”
After the story, I lay beside him with the lights still aglow. He expressed his reluctance to turn them off or to let me leave. To comfort him, I activated the hidden button on his teddy bear’s heart, which played a brief recording of my voice singing a few lines from “Help.” This had become his lullaby during his infancy, a time when sleep deprivation had rendered me unable to recall the words to any other song:
“When I was younger, so much younger than today, I never needed anybody’s help in any way…”
As I observed him grow drowsy, his golden lashes brushed against his cheeks, his skin a flawless canvas. I realized he was on the cusp of the magical phase of childhood, teetering between innocent wonder and the rebellious years ahead—an era I cherished and wished to prolong. What an extraordinary boy he was, I thought; a delightful 9-year-old. His laughter sparked joy within me, while his tears tugged at my heartstrings. If he were to be selling dirt door-to-door and I had never met him, one glance at that face would compel me to buy a truckload.
We sang together, repeatedly pressing the button until he slipped into slumber, allowing me the opportunity to commence my secret project. I had resolved to unpack every box in his room, ensuring that when he awoke the following morning, he would discover a transformed space. The preceding six months had been challenging; his father had relocated for work, while we remained behind to complete the school year. The winter had been harsh, filled with relentless ice storms and bittersweet farewells to friends, teachers, and beloved places. My aim was to restore some joy to his life and create an environment he could treasure as much as his old room, where he had brought characters to life through play and crafted Lego creations of all sizes.
Fortunately, he was a sound sleeper. I hung clothes in his closet, draped capes and hats on wooden pegs, decorated the walls with pictures, organized books on shelves, and filled his red wooden wagon with toys. I proudly displayed his Lego masterpieces, tucked trading cards in a shoebox under the bed, and placed his moon-and-stars rug on the floor. Above his bed, I hung a bright yellow Styrofoam sun with a cheerful smile.
By 4 a.m., my task was complete. I had even flattened the empty boxes and transported them to our cluttered garage. Before I finally went to bed, I set my alarm for 8 a.m., eager to witness his expression upon waking.
At 7 a.m., he stood beside my bed. “Mom,” he gently nudged my arm, “Mom, wake up, please.”
I sat up, curious. “Why are you awake so early?”
“Because something happened while I was sleeping,” he replied.
“What?”
“My room is nice now. The boxes are gone,” he exclaimed. “You have to come see!”
Fast forward to last week, after taking him to college for his freshman year, I began packing up that same room. Some belongings would be discarded, others donated, and a few saved for nostalgia. He still possessed his Legos and trading cards, yet many items had been replaced or stored over the years. A few drawings remained on the walls; he had sent some of his favorite posters, including several of The Beatles, to his dorm. His closet was largely bare, with only a few items left wrapped in plastic—the judo uniform once worn by my husband as a child, the wool blazer gifted by my mother, and the tiny faux leather jacket he donned while pretending to be Elvis.
I vacuumed the curtains, bedding, and remnants of dried toothpaste from the carpet. I dusted the smiling sun, a reminder of simpler times. The bear’s button had long since 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 article first appeared on November 6, 2014. For further exploration of similar themes, consider visiting this linked article from our blog. If you are looking for resources on pregnancy and home insemination, this site is an authority on the subject. Additionally, the Genetics and IVF Institute provides excellent information regarding similar topics.
In summary, this poignant reflection captures the bittersweet transition from childhood innocence to the challenges of adulthood, marked by the tender moments shared between a mother and her son.