By: Clara H. Jennings
Updated: July 30, 2019
Originally Published: November 6, 2014
This is the tale of a young boy and his sanctuary. Nine years ago, on our first night in this new home, he drifted off to sleep surrounded by mountains of boxes. Before he closed his eyes, I read him a story from his beloved book, The Stinky Cheese Man and Other Fairly Stupid Tales. I had packed it alongside his teddy bear and a fresh checkered comforter, labeling the box “Open First.”
After the story, I lay beside him for a while, the lights still aglow. He expressed he wasn’t ready for them to be off or for me to leave just yet. So, I activated the hidden button on the teddy bear’s heart, which played a 30-second clip of me singing a few lines of “Help.” This song had been his lullaby during infancy, a time when sleep deprivation had me forgetting the lyrics to any other tune:
“When I was younger, so much younger than today,
I never needed anybody’s help in any way…”
As I watched him become drowsy, I noticed how his golden lashes curled at the tips, framing his perfect skin. He was in that magical phase between innocent wonder and teenage rebellion—the Time of Bliss—and I wished to relish every second. What a boy, I thought, this enchanting 9-year-old. His laughter was contagious, and his tears tugged at my heart. If he were selling dirt door-to-door and I had never met him, just one glance at that face would have convinced me to buy a truckload.
We sang together, and he pressed the button repeatedly until he slipped into dreams, granting me the chance to work. I resolved to unpack his room entirely so that when he awoke the next morning, it would feel like a new world. The six months leading up to our 1,400-mile relocation had been challenging: his father had gone ahead for work while we stayed behind to finish the school year. That winter was relentless, marked by ice storms and difficult farewells to friends, teachers, and cherished places. I yearned to bring him happiness, to repay some of the joy he had given me just by being himself. I wanted to craft a space he could cherish as he had his old room, where he had role-played characters from stories and built Lego creations of every kind.
Fortunately, he slept soundly. I hung clothes in his closet, capes and hats on wooden pegs, adorned the walls with pictures, organized books on shelves, and filled his red wooden wagon with toys. I showcased his Lego masterpieces, tucked trading cards in a shoebox beneath the bed, and laid out his moon-and-stars rug on the floor. Above his bed, I hung a cheerful yellow Styrofoam sun.
By 4 a.m., I had completed the task, even managing to flatten the boxes and transport them to our garage. I set my alarm for 8 a.m., eager to witness his reaction upon waking.
At 7 a.m., he stood beside my bed. “Mom,” he said, gently touching 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 happened?”
“My room got nice. The boxes are gone,” he exclaimed. “You’ve got to come see my room.”
Fast forward to last week, when I packed up that same room after dropping him off at college to begin his freshman year. Some belongings were tossed, others donated, and a few kept for nostalgia. His Legos and trading cards remained, but many items had been replaced or boxed up over the years. A handful of drawings and photos still clung to the walls; he had sent his favorite posters, including several of The Beatles, to his dorm. His closet was mostly bare, with a few clothes wrapped in plastic—the judo outfit that belonged to my husband as a child, the wool blazer gifted to him by my mother when he was little, and the tiny faux leather jacket he wore while pretending to be Elvis, along with the honor-society T-shirts.
I vacuumed the curtains, bedding, and the remnants of dried toothpaste from the carpet. I dusted the sun with the smiling face. The button on the bear had long since lost its charge, 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 was originally published on November 6, 2014.
If you’re interested in more parenting stories, consider exploring our other blogs, such as this one on the at-home insemination kit. For those seeking guidance on the journey to parenthood, Jake and Emily’s story can be found here, and for comprehensive information on insemination methods, check out this excellent resource from the Cleveland Clinic on intrauterine insemination.
In summary, this touching narrative captures the essence of childhood, the bittersweet nature of growing up, and the emotional journey of a parent as they transition from one chapter to another.