By: Jenna L. Bright
Updated: July 30, 2019
Originally Published: November 6, 2014
This is a tale about a young boy and the magic of his room. On the first night in our new home, nine years ago, he drifted off to sleep surrounded by mountains of boxes. Before he closed his eyes, I read him a few pages from his treasured book, The Silly Cheese Guy and Other Ridiculously Stupid Stories, which I had thoughtfully packed with his teddy bear and a new checkered comforter, labeling the box “Open First.”
After the story, I snuggled beside him, the lights still aglow. He wasn’t quite ready to sleep or to let me go. So, I pressed the hidden button on his teddy bear—a little trick that played a 30-second recording of me singing a few lines of “Help.” This had become our special lullaby during those early sleep-deprived nights when I couldn’t recall the lyrics to anything else.
As I watched him succumb to sleep, I marveled at his golden lashes that mirrored his hair, curling gently at the tips. His skin was flawless. I realized he was at that perfect age—caught between delightful innocence and the impending teenage angst—a blissful time that I wanted to cherish. What a remarkable boy he was, a magical 9-year-old! His laughter was contagious, and his tears tugged at my heartstrings. If he were selling dirt door-to-door, I’d have bought every last scoop just for the chance to see that face.
We sang together, him pressing the button repeatedly until he finally floated off to dreamland, and I got to work. I was determined to unpack every box in his room so that when he awoke the next morning, he would find a transformed space. The six months leading up to our 1400-mile move had been a whirlwind: his dad had already settled in for work while we stayed behind to finish the school year. That winter had been brutal, filled with ice storms and tough goodbyes to friends and places he cherished. I wanted to bring back some of the joy he had given me just by being himself. I envisioned a room where he could continue to play out stories and build fantastical Lego creations, just like he did in his old room.
Lucky for me, he slept soundly. I hung clothes in his closet, capes and hats on wooden pegs, adorned the walls with pictures, arranged 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 laid down his moon-and-stars rug. Above his bed, I hung a cheerful yellow Styrofoam sun.
By 4 a.m., I was done. I had even flattened the empty boxes and stashed them in our cluttered garage. Before collapsing into bed, I set my alarm for 8 a.m. I couldn’t wait to see his reaction when he woke up.
At 7 a.m., I felt a light touch on my arm. “Mom,” he whispered. “Wake up, please.”
I propped myself up. “Why are you awake so early?”
“Something happened while I was sleeping,” he said, excitement bubbling over. “My room got nice! The boxes are gone. You have to see it!”
Fast forward to last week, when I packed up that very room, sending my son off to college. I sifted through his belongings, some destined for the trash, others to be donated, and a few kept as keepsakes. His Legos and trading cards remained, but most of his childhood treasures had been replaced or stored away over the years. A few drawings still clung to the walls; he had even mailed posters of his beloved Beatles to his dorm. His closet was nearly bare, with just a few items wrapped in plastic—the judo outfit that belonged to my husband as a child, a wool blazer gifted by my mother when he was little, and the faux leather jacket he wore while pretending to be Elvis.
I vacuumed up dust from the curtains, the bedding, and the remnants of dried toothpaste on the carpet. I took a moment to dust off the smiling sun. The bear’s button had long lost its magic, but I couldn’t help myself; I sat on his bed and sang our 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.”
For more on the journey of parenthood, feel free to check out our other posts, like this one about home insemination. Also, if you’re interested in the world of pregnancy, this resource might be helpful: What to Expect When You Have Your First IUI. And if you’re considering options for home insemination, you might want to review this kit for additional insights.
Summary
This reflective piece explores the journey of a mother as she creates a special space for her son in their new home. Through moments of nostalgia and bittersweet change, it captures the essence of childhood and the inevitable passage of time.