A Reminder of Innocence

As squeals of laughter echo from the adjacent room, I find myself feeling relieved to finally hear playful sounds coming from my two children. We’ve only been in our new house for a few days, and without the convenience of their favorite toys or TV, and no one else to entertain them but me, they’ve been encouraged to create their own fun. I hear scrambling feet, and as the squeals come closer, my 2-year-old, Juliana, zips past me grinning widely as her brother, Nate, scrambles at her heels, promising to “tickle torture her.” The boxes strewn about seem endless, and my knees are starting to ache from my constant kneeling on the cold, hardwood floors throughout the house. Just as I lean over and begin unpacking a new box, Nate, my 4-year-old, races past me, bumping the tall cardboard container with his feet, sending it sliding several feet away. I stand up, and although I try to keep my cool, I yell after him to slow down—again. He is wild, and fast, and always on the go. He is getting tall and assertive too. Almost every day now, he reminds me that he is no longer a baby. “I am a big boy now, mom. I can do anything!”

A moment later, the two of them come crashing back into the living room and collapse on the floor next to me. Nate sits up though and instantly reaches his hands out to the pile of photo albums sitting on the floor nearby.


“Mama!” he exclaimed, pointing to my wedding album. “Is that the book about your wedding?”

“Yes, it is,” I say, thrilled to have caught his attention with something new. Do you want to look at it?”

He beamed, and without hesitation yelled, “yes!” He jumped up and picked up the massive book, clumsily lugging it in his small hands toward the kitchen where he placed it atop the kitchen table.

“Juliana!” Nate called, “come on, mama’s going to show us the pictures in her married book!” They sat down next to me and as we opened the album and began turning the pages of crisp, colorful photos, the two of them honored me with all of the appropriate oohs, and awes. Their little fingers pointed excitedly to each picture, complimenting daddy’s smile or auntie’s hairdo. They asked about the names of extended family members in the photos, who they still had yet to meet, and to them, most importantly, about what kind of cake we ate at the reception.

We continued to flip the pages of the album and when we were about half way through, Nate suddenly stopped and with a growing frown, looked up at me.

“Mama,” he said, while tears began to well in his big blue eyes, "how come I'm not in any of the pictures? Didn't I get to go to your wedding?”

I stared at him, speechless and completely taken aback by his question. I searched in mind for the appropriate response, and I paused for still another moment, willing my mind to produce a magic answer for him.

“Nate, sweetie, you hadn't yet been born,” I blurted out, regretting my choice of words the second they left my lips. In that one second, I knew with every fiber in my body that my careless choice of words had been terribly wrong. He couldn’t comprehend what I was saying. I watched his eyes narrow and his face wrinkle a bit. He didn’t even understand what I said.

He grows impatient with me and he begins to cry a deep muffled sob. He asks again, practically yelling at me this time, “why am I not in the pictures mama? Where was I?”

Juliana responds this time. “You were probably just a baby, Nate!”

“No, I wasn’t,” he snaps back at her, clearly annoyed at the mention of his being anything other then a big boy. "And even if I was, babies are allowed in church,” he tells her. “It’s not fair! I always want to be where you are mama, why didn’t I get to go to the party for your wedding?"

Wow, I think to myself. This is getting tricky, and the situation as a whole is quickly becoming one of my less finer moments as a parent. Why am I not able to offer him the knowledge we desperately need to see us through this conversation?

I reach out to him and pull his little body up onto my lap, offering him the only kind of security I’m able to in this confusing experience. I take a deep breath, stalling again and imagine what is going through his mind—if there was a time when he wasn’t alive, here with us, then where was he?

“Was I all alone?” He asks me, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Did you leave me at home by myself, or forget about me?”

And then, in an instance, it comes to me—focus on what he does know, what he is capable of understanding, what is said to him.

“Nate, no,” I practically whisper, “of course not sweetheart. You know mommy and daddy would never do that.”

He wraps his arms around my waist and buries his face into my shirt.

“Look,” I say, stroking his hair, “I know that you are sad because you can’t see yourself in the pictures, but you were there that day, you and Juliana both were, I promise. You were there in mommy and daddy’s hearts, you always have been.

He looks up at me then, content with finally hearing that he had been there—in some capacity. I give him a hug and before he has a chance to say anything else, I decide that at least for the rest of the day, we’ll just stick to the tangibles in life. I put Nate on his feet.

“Go back to that open box in the living room,” I tell them both, “and see if you can find your baby photo albums!”

Nate wipes his cheeks dry and before I know it, they’re both off and running—once again.