Today, my daughter and I embark on the task of decluttering her room. As she approaches her 11th birthday, she’s made it clear that her days of a childlike bedroom are over. The cotton-candy-pink walls now feel overly vibrant to her, her beloved stuffed Smurf has lost its charm, and those princess-themed decorations are definitely in her rearview mirror. In exchange for a bedroom makeover for her birthday, I’ve insisted we thoroughly clean out her space—closets, drawers, and everything in between. With Taylor Swift playing in the background, we get to work.
I sit cross-legged on her soft carpet, observing as she stands in a shaft of sunlight, rummaging through a bin filled with doll clothes. She embodies the essence of a tween—caught between childhood and adolescence. She still believes in Santa Claus but is aware of more adult themes. She requires a nightlight but can operate the oven on her own. She rides shotgun in the car yet still craves those comforting bedtime rituals.
Her once-pudgy frame has transformed into a tall, slender figure. No longer just cute, she is now strikingly beautiful. She’s traded her frilly skirts and flashy jewelry for a more casual style—jeans paired with a turquoise T-shirt. Her shiny brown hair is pulled back into a neat ponytail, accentuating her expressive green eyes that no longer hide behind chubby cheeks.
Some items are easy for both of us to part with. We toss out her Daisy troop posters and discarded pages from a princess coloring book. The golden curtain rods also find their way to the trash.
Yet, I find myself creating a separate pile of keepsakes that I’m not ready to part with. I uncover a little pink dress, adorned with shimmering beads and fringed edges, a gift from her grandparents when she was just seven. The memory feels like it was only yesterday when she twirled in that miniature flapper outfit.
“What about this dress?” I ask, holding it up.
“It doesn’t fit me anymore, Mommy,” she replies.
“I know,” I respond with a sigh, briefly bringing the fabric to my face.
She suggests we throw away a purple tulle butterfly that once dangled from her ceiling, but I find a sneaky way to add it to my ‘keep’ pile.
We gather her Rainbow Fairies books to donate to a neighbor—those I won’t miss. But the Ramona books? They’re staying with me.
I come across a uniquely crafted clay heart box, made by her small hands long ago. Its felt lining and colorful gems are a testament to her creativity, even if the lid doesn’t quite fit.
“Oh, Mommy,” she exclaims, cradling it in her hands. “I can’t let this go.” She gently strokes the uneven surface, and I understand her attachment.
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In summary, cleaning Mia’s room becomes more than just a household chore; it’s a poignant reflection of her journey from childhood to adolescence. As we sift through items, we find joy in memories and lessons in letting go, all while making space for new beginnings.