My son had trouble going to sleep last night. Not an unusual occurrence for him due to the meds we take but I still like to nip it in the bud. I could hear noises coming from the room and, as I stepped in, I saw he had started to clean. The cleaning part was unusual. Normally I’d find him with a Nintendo hidden under his pillow or a flashlight hidden in his sheets so I was at first happy to see he was just cleaning. Nonetheless, I told him it was time to sleep.
A few minutes later, he emerged from his room, and before I can usher him back to his bed he says, “Mom, I can’t sleep. I think I’m a hoarder.”
Trying not to laugh out loud, I tell him, “Buddy, how do you even know that word?” to which he replies, “I heard it at school and I think I am because I won’t get rid of my toys.”
I hid my smile and said, “You are not a hoarder, my friend, and I know that because I can still see the floor in your room and your toys all still live in your bins. When I can’t see your floor anymore, we’ll talk. Until then, you’re okie dokie and not a hoarder.”
“Really?” He asked me with the last of his voice landing in a very high pitch and giving sound to his utter shock.
“Yep,” I told him, “Really and truly.”
Relieved, that at least for the time being he is not a hoarder after all, the boy was able to sleep.