This past weekend I spent a day cleaning out our garage. I stumbled on a bin filled with my old journals. Stacked between my Hello Kitty journal from 1st grade and a series of dollar store composition books from my early 30’s was the beat up leather notebook I filled up in the months after Stevie passed away. I flipped through the pages, my eyes filling with tears reading the words I’d written of the memories that still remain so fresh in my heart today. Then I stumbled on an entry from late April, a memory I hadn’t recalled for years. I brought the journal into the house to read the entry out loud to my Mom. Wesley, now 15, was sitting on the couch watching football. As I read the words to her, I knew he would be eavesdropping, I hoped he would be…
Journal Entry:
April 25, 2021
On the day Stevie passed away, I made the wallpaper on my phone one of my favorite photos of her. It’s a photo of her in our living room on a wooden rocking horse that was mine when I was her age. Her bright blue eyes sparkle back at the camera as she gives her signature open-mouthed smile, messy curls falling from a ponytail on the top of her head. The photo captures her joy and spunk and the rocking horse symbolizes all I had been hoping to share with her.
Now, nearly one year later, our family is in Lake Arrowhead for the weekend. Wesley is 11 years old. He’s sitting next to me in the town diner messing around on my phone and taking silly zoomed in photos of my face with particular emphasis on my nostrils. He thinks he’s hilarious and I smile at his joy in this moment. But then, without me knowing, Wes resets my phone wallpaper to one of these funny photos.
Ashley of two years ago would have laughed hard and high fived his comedic stealth. But that wasn’t the reaction of this Ashley. I unlocked my phone, feeling his anticipation of a good laugh burning into me through his awaiting stare. But when I realized Stevie’s photo had been removed and replaced with a practical joke, he did not get the reaction he was expecting.
Even as the words were leaving my mouth, I knew I would wish I could take them back. I’d wish I had instead taken a breath, and given myself a moment to process my initial shock before I spoke with words chosen carefully, before I responded with gentleness.
Instead, I reacted. Manically.
Why would you do this? What made you think replacing Stevie’s picture would be a good idea? Nothing about this is funny!
The tone in my voice was frantic and desperate.
I was sitting in the restaurant booth, a window to one side, Wes and his childhood friend sitting to the other side. I started to feel suffocated, trapped. I needed to get out of that booth before I said anything else I’d regret, before I let him see my tears. Tears that were not his fault…yet, tears he’d feel forever responsible for because of my rash reaction.
I anxiously scooted past the kids, leaving my phone on the table and I rushed to the restroom to regain my composure. When I returned, a plastered smile on my face and tears buried in the back of my throat, I could see that my frantic energy had transferred to Wesley. His head was down and he was anxiously scrolling through my phone looking for the photo of Stevie he had removed.
But he didn’t know where to find it and instead of cheerful, bright eyed, energetic and smiling photos of Stevie, he had stumbled on the photos of her in the hospital, monitors in the background and wires hugging the frame of her small body, photos of difficult moments I had worked so hard to protect him from. With each photo he scrolled past I could feel the magnitude of the deleted picture searing into his soul and I rushed to rescue him.
Oh honey, it’s okay. I will find the picture for you later. Thank you so much for looking though.
Reluctantly, handed me the phone. I slipped it into my back pocket and pulled his body into me and kissed his head.
I love you so much bud and I’m so happy I get to spend the day with you today.
It was all I could think to say in the moment…a moment my mama heart will continue to replay with a sinking pit in my stomach for months to come. Was it a big deal? Of course not. Could I have replaced the photo with ease? Yes, certainly. But in that moment my grief was irrational and I didn’t protect my innocent son from its wrath.
(end journal entry)
I close the journal and look over my shoulder at Wes. He’s silent, looking at the television, but his expression let’s me know he heard every word. My Mom speaks first.
Do you remember that day Wes? She asks him gently.
He nods his head and looks over at us.
Yes, we were at the Cedarglenn Inn restaurant with Lily and Lacey.
I’m not sure why I feel shocked that he remembers. Of course he does. This had become one of those childhood memories seared into his mind forever. We all have them. And we rarely talk about them, especially with our parents. These are the memories that usually get swept under the rug in families. Parents convincing themselves that their children won’t remember when they’re older. Children too confused by the overwhelming emotion of the memory so they never ask their parents about it. Or worse, children try to bring up the memory but are told by parents that “it was nothing, not a big deal, that’s not how it happened” and so the child buries it back in the chambers of their heart until it resurfaces in their mind at the most unexpected of times.
I looked at Wesley’s face, the pain still obvious years later, and I decided we were going to rewrite the meaning of this memory. I set down the journal and stood to go sit closer to him. I wrapped my arms around his body, a body that now towers over my own.
I’m sorry. I whispered to him.
I never should have reacted that way. You didn’t deserve that. I let my emotions and sadness overshadow how I should have handled that moment and I’m sorry it took me so long to apologize to you. I wasn’t the only one sad about Stevie that day. You were too, and I failed to ask you about your feelings on that day.
He nods in acknowledgment and I can feel his shoulders soften ever so slightly.
And Wes, if you have any other memories like this one, memories that make you feel bad, memories that are confusing or sad, or memories where you are owed an apology…please come to me so I can handle them better and tell you the words you deserve to hear. Those moments aren’t yours to carry alone, Wes. I’m far from perfect, but I’m here for you, always.
My mama lesson: It’s a bitter pill to swallow for our children when they realize how imperfect we are. I believe, one of the greatest gifts we can give our children after they learn this truth is found in the embracing of our imperfections, giving them permission to do the same. Acknowledging our own shortcomings gives them space to make their own mistakes and live authentically while also offering them an example of how to seek and acceptance forgiveness even (and especially) when it’s hard.
