I live in my own apartment about half an hour away from my childhood home. With that said, I feel that even though I’m not living in my childhood bedroom, it should remain in tact. It should become a museum, of sorts. My posters should remain haphazardly taped to the walls like they were when I was in middle school. My junior prom corsage should be allowed to continue wilting on my dresser. My parents, however, seem to feel differently. I discovered this when I went home for a visit. I walked into my childhood bedroom and noticed something was off.
“Where is my TV?” I wondered. Strange.
Then I wandered to my dresser to get some body lotion. Except all my lotions and sprays were gone. I don’t care if they were crusty and dried up. They were mine.
I opened my jewelry box. It was completely empty. Ransacked.
“It’s okay.” I thought. “I’ll just rediscover some stuff in my closet that I forgot about.” I opened up the closet.
“What is this? When did I get this shirt?” I wondered. Then I realized that my mom had moved her clothes into my closet. Anything I had left was stuffed into a box. Clearly the clothes were not that important since they were still at my parents’ house, but I was using the place as a free storage closet so I was a little miffed!
Turns out the management had moved the TV into the office. My lotions and sprays “must have gotten thrown out”. I later found that my earrings magically found their way into my mother’s jewelry box.
“What!? You weren’t wearing them!” she laughed. Scoundrel!
To add insult to injury, one day my mother walked in to my office. She was carrying a large box.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“These are your old report cards, test scores, papers, college recommendations, that type of thing. I thought you might like to have them,” she said as she handed them to me.
I was highly insulted. I am not my own mother. Why would I want to be able to look at my consistently poor math scores? Why would I want to read my nice college recommendations? YOU are the mother. YOU get teary-eyed as you read these things. YOU keep them.
“I don’t want them! You’re my mom! You should want them! Frame them and hang them up or something! Or throw them out, I don’t care!” I said as I brought the level of drama up.
“Jeez, okay. Relax. I’ll take them back. I just thought you might think it was fun to have this stuff.” My mom looked at me like I was a lunatic and took the box back. But seriously. What do I want with my elementary school drawings or my 8th grade state test results? Let’s be real.
Next time I’m over I’m going to find that they’re renting out my room to some poor college student or something.
Although I will say that when I returned home and discovered the state of my room, I did find this great bag:
So I guess getting kicked out of your childhood room isn’t all bad.
Have you been kicked out of your childhood room since you went away to school? Do you also feel that your room should stay as a museum/shrine to the greatness that was your childhood?