Faith & Family - Innocent
On a shelf in our closet sits a paper Bath & Body Works bag brimming with pictures. Its blue and white checkered edges held together with small strips of Scotch tape, I’ve had this makeshift photo album for nearly fifteen years. What briefly contained a tube of lotion and sweet-smelling body spray following a trip to the mall now holds my most prized belongings.
Needing to locate a particular photo for one reason or another, I retrieve the bag and set it down on our bed, careful not to damage the paper any further. The contents are at least moderately organized, starting with the kids’ baby pictures at the top of the stack and more recent photos—like that family trip to Disney World in 2023 and a snapshot of my son in last year’s Halloween costume—situated at the bottom. Some four-by-sixes off to the side, still nestled inside one-hour photo envelopes from Walmart, remain to be cataloged. As usual, I promise myself I’ll get to it, probably about the same time I finally print the hundreds of images still stored on SD cards from my never-went-anywhere-without-a-digital-Kodak- camera days in my early twenties.
Drawing a palm-size handful out of the bag, I’m instantly transfixed by memories. (I swear, this is always the case.) I spot the photos my mother-in-law snapped on our wedding day. There are pictures from a miniature golf outing with a group from church and miscellaneous vacations, and, sandwiched between other photos from when Mike and I were dating, there’s a seemingly random picture of a single chocolate chip cookie he had personalized for me. (It said “Mike loves Erin” in red buttercream.)
But infinitely more than anything else, there are photos of our kids. In a ceaseless effort to hold onto their youth, it’s possible I have more pictures than necessary, yet still it doesn’t seem like enough, and, also, may I relive those beautifully hard days one more time?
An especially endearing image steals my attention and I lift it closer to my eyes. An area photographer had met me at the park years before to take updated photos of the boys, back when I had only two. My son Logan was still snuggled inside his dinosaur-patterned car seat when the woman had whipped out her camera and started snapping pictures. Wide eyes staring directly into the lens, my baby boy was probably little more than half a year old at the time and a hardcore thumb-sucker. Tears suddenly burn the corners of my eyes as I take in his plump cheeks, fuzzy scalp, and pint-size suspenders. I stare back into his gaze, and, while I’m reminded of how much he’s aged (he’ll turn sixteen next month), I consider more how innocent he used to be.
From the second motherhood claimed me—sometimes, I think, more than others—I’ve worried for my kids. I panic over the limitless content they can pull up online, any time, day or night. I worry about who is telling them what and how it’s affecting their minds. I ache thinking how confusing this world must be for someone so young when we adults are all over the place with what we do and where we stand. Regularly my heart bursts over the reality that precious babies must draw breath in such a broken world; sweet souls that once craved little more than a clean diaper and milk are burdened so soon with trauma, self-doubt, and deeply incredible pain. (Should any of the above keep you awake at night, I promise I’m right there with you.)
But while we long so badly to protect them, our babies, like every other being, must grow up. Aging is inevitable; it’s the goal. As we afford them the room that they need to breathe, however, we can find comfort in tarrying close, boldly armed with our faith, grit, and lessons learned.
Tucking the cherished photo back into its place in the stack, I locate the picture I need and return my weathered bag of nostalgia to the shelf. Inevitably, not too long from now, I’ll pull it down again and remember how little my babies were— and just how far we’ve come.
A resident of McDonough County, Erin Eddy lives in Macomb with her husband, Mike, their five boys, and two zealous Australian Shepherds. She aspires to uplift readers, penning stories of encouragement and everyday life. Her work has been featured on the influential website Her View From Home, as well as the book series Chicken Soup for the Soul. Contact [email protected].
