More Than Words

If you would have asked me up to about a month ago what one of my children was like at around kindergarten age, I would have answered that he was difficult. Memories are always a bit foggy and specific details eluded me, but the tension I felt was real and I believed it to have been, no doubt, about him. Years have passed, happy experiences have been shared, the tension long gone and replaced by a good connection. I never gave those difficult years a thought, let alone reflection. They were written off to his being a “tough kid” before growing up; they became an uncomfortable joke.

Memories are always a bit foggy and specific details eluded me, but the tension I felt was realUntil one Shabbat afternoon.

I was looking at some old photo albums with some of my other children. We laughed at outdated hairdos and eyeglasses, grew misty-eyed at the sight of relatives and friends no longer with us. And then, a page came into view that offered me a most painful glimpse into what I never knew had been a very painful reality.

It was a series of three photos of my son’s preschool graduation, him looking hopeful and somewhat proud in his makeshift cap and tassel. Hopeful, because he was sitting very close to me in the first shot, obviously hungry and leaning in toward me anxious for some contact, some deserved attention as the star of the day. He didn’t get it. I was leaning away from him, one arm around my mother on my other side, the other tightly around a sibling on my lap. The second picture in the series found him still with an anxious look but with shoulders a bit slumped, a trace of dejection evident in his beautiful eyes. He was still leaning in, with me still leaning away. By the third shot his arms are crossed, his body upright. The “tough kid” look—or was it just sad? I was still in the same pose, clueless to his disappointment. And that’s when it hit me. I had been clueless all along.

Flashes of other, similar frames came to mind. Not keeping him on my lap as long as he wanted to be there. A crisp, “Okay! Time to get moving!” followed by placing him down, his head still buried in my chest. Not smiling enough. Not playing enough. Being gruff, assuming the worst when it was unfounded. Noticing his wounded look, but willing myself not to see it. Those tough years weren’t the product of a difficult child. They were the product of my leaning away.

Those tough years weren’t the product of a difficult child. They were the product of my leaning awayI cried over those pictures and was haunted by them through Shabbat and beyond. My son called, as always, after Shabbat, anxious to connect and express his love. I was ashamed to hear the goodness in his voice. It was just further proof of his innocence, his sweetness . . . and my guilt. A conversation was needed, I knew, but it would have to take place in person. Each phone call felt forced. I so much wanted to tell him about my epiphany, to hold him. To lean in.

Over his next stretch at home, I had the chance. We were taking a walk, his smile and great company as deliciously wonderful as always (well, not always), and I took his hand. It was an emotional apology. The pictures, the reality check, my deepest and most heartfelt request for forgiveness. He squeezed my hand and looked into my eyes. “Of course I forgive you, Mommy. It wasn’t your fault. I was probably not so easy.” He hugged me, tighter than ever. I disagreed. I shook. And I leaned in.

A picture, it seems, offers more than a thousand words. It offers second chances.