Pictures on the Wall

Last night, I was lying in my bed minding my own business, when I happened to look over at the window to my right. Not an unusual occurrence; when you have a large, picture window in your bedroom, you tend to look in that direction on a regular basis. But this time, I was struck by the 11x14 framed photo just off to the side of the window. It's been there awhile but I don't often stop to really look at it, which is a surprise as it's one of my favorites. It was taken when my daughter was four and my son was two. They're both dressed in Easter finery; she's wearing a ruffled dress and a straw hat with a ribbon flowing down the back and he's wearing suspenders and a bow tie (I know, I used to go a little crazy with the clothes on picture day). She's kneeling on the floor next to his wooden chair, holding his hand (probably to keep him from bolting) and both of them look like a couple of angels. No wonder I have a hard time accepting that they are now two adult individuals, prone to making the same mistakes as the rest of us.

But how do you stop thinking about your children as children when everywhere you look there are reminders of their sweet, innocent baby/toddler faces?

I know. I could take down all the photos. But that's not going to happen. There are so many memories on those walls; so many reminders of happy, funny, memorable moments, that I wouldn't want to sacrifice the joy I get from looking at them. There's the close-up of my daughter, sucking her thumb, holding her favorite lovey, a bunny blanket with blue eyes the same size and shape as hers. There's the hilarious shot of my son and his cousin trying to out-duel each other making faces. There's the one I took of the two of them, where she is laughing hysterically and he looks like a deer in the headlights. All of them make me smile (and occasionally make me tear up) but they all have something else in common - they all were taken before junior high. Somehow, the years between twelve and eighteen are conspicuous in their absence.

But maybe that's not so strange. What kid wants their picture taken during those adolescent years? Mine sure didn't; the fewer memories of braces, acne and bad haircuts, the better. And what parent wants to relive any of it anyway? Those were the tough years; the uncute years. Those were years filled with nagging about homework, suffering through hormonal changes and worrying about drugs, alcohol, and whether they could drive home safely in a snowstorm. Is it any wonder those pictures (what few of them there are) stay in a drawer?

It's a lot easier (and a lot more fun) to reminisce about those good-old-childhood days, when our children, and the size of their problems, were smaller.