Growing Up

19/10/2014

My youngest has been complaining about having his room back, it is well justified, he moves into the spare room when his uncle, aunt & niece come to stay. He has been in the spare room for months and whilst I have had good intentions they haven’t actually happened in reality.
So today was d Day and it turned into a fairly major de-clutter.
He was very adamant in how he wanted his room to be, and after some negotiation and discussion we agreed a plan. He wants minimal things in his room, he wants his wardrobe to be for clothes only and he would like new curtains – dark blue with a duvet cover to match; he no longer wants the bookcase which I painted blue when he and his brother shared a bedroom when they were small boys. The bookcase was given to us by Grandma’s neighbour, we had just moved off the boat into a rented house and had little furniture, we were grateful for her donation of 3 bookcases. I painted the bedroom for the boys and had leftover paint, so sanded, primed and painted the bookcase; in order to actually get it into the boys’ room we had to man handle it through their bedroom window. When we moved out, I had a wrist injury so our friend Stef came and helped dad get it back out through the window. Toby recalls this story as we are going through the books he no longer wants. It is really lovely to hear him speak about Stef and remembering a funny event which still makes him laugh. I have a feeling of peace as he talks, his words have peace and acceptance as well as understanding that life goes on. Death is final and that is hard to deal with, he has reached a milestone and come a long way on his path with grief. There is no sadness in his voice but lightness and laughter, it is a beautiful moment.
It is quite a cathartic afternoon, in order for Toby to have his room exactly how he wants it, he has to sort through his things. He accepts this with no qualms and takes each book off the shelf saying which pile it should go in. This is the first time that he has been able or willing to do so, as he picks each book up he gives a running commentary, which makes us giggle. He flicks through some of them and hands me two of his old railway books.
I flick through them as well and remember the days when he would be transfixed by the pictures; he would spend hours looking at them – at one time the book use to go to bed with him.
By the time he has sorted all of his books they are all in piles – charity shop, Fidget, Roan, Thomas and some which are keepers or mine. As I am bagging them up I am both reminded and amazed at time, when we moved into this house he was 7.
He is nearly a teenager, no longer a little boy, he is a young man and has decided it’s time to pack away his childhood.
Today my youngest son, in his way, told me that he is growing up.

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