She said, "Thank you."

Three months ago Zoe asked to move her bedroom downstairs. We complied. She moved whatever still mattered to her and left everything else behind, stowed away in her old closet and on the floor of her old bedroom. She said, "Get rid of everything." I said, "Um, no, YOU get rid of everything." Nothing happened.

3 weeks after her move, kittens moved in and stayed in her old room. Whatever was still on the floor got shoved in the closet on top of whatever else had already been shoved in the closet.

6 weeks after her move, the kittens moved on and the old cat moved in. Robert opened the closet and started sorting and tossing.

10 weeks after her move to the basement, she decided she'd like to move back to her old room. The closet was emptied, the room was swept, the curtains taken down and laundered, and the room was painted.

12 weeks after her move to the basement, she moved back into her old room with a fresh start. A new chandelier. A "new" bed. Fresh walls (ready for artwork and sparkly lights and posters of werewolves).

And a clean closet.

All of this happened with very little effort from the 14 year old girl. She drew plans for her room. She flipped through Ikea catalogs and bookmarked almost every item in Wake Up Frankie. She painted a wall (sort of) and did a little taping. She vacuumed the rug. She put the light bulb in her lamp.

We, the parents, were tired of being the laborers to her contractor. We'd done a lot. Moving. Cleaning. Sorting. Painting. Sawing. Patching. The last effort was to bring up all her clothes and return them to her dresser, sorted. We weren't going to do that for her.

Zoe begrudgingly agreed to carry up her clothes. They sat on the clean rug. 2 feet deep. Encompassing the majority of the room. Clothes everywhere. Zoe tossed the last handful down and ran.

I called after her. "Come back!"

She complained. "I have things to do! I need to go draw!" I stood firm. But then backed down. I knew it wouldn't happen without my help. "Okay, you will sit here, help me, tell me what you like and what you can get rid of, what you can put away until summer." She tried to scoot out the door. I mentioned the show "Hoarders" more than once. Eventually, after about 30 minutes she was happily sorting, chatting and comfortable (no more edging out the doorway). We finished in very little time and everything was in just the right place -- summer clothes stowed on shelves in the closet, winter clothes in the drawer, jackets and sweaters and coats hung on hangers. It wasn't that big of a deal. I heard myself repeating my mantra, "Just keep at it, learn to fold well and quickly, have a place for something and return it there. Is this really that hard? Just don't let it get too intimidating! Isn't this fun?! Doesn't this make you feel happy?" Maybe this is how hoarders are made. Mothers with mantras. Mothers that help too much.

(We've had this conversation so many times before. She's got the mantra memorized.)

That night, when she was tucked in bed and I went in to say good night, she said, "Thank you. Thank you for helping me with my room."