Picture This
August 26, 2007

I haven�t pointed a camera at my son in over a year. In his current state of anxiety-induced hospitalization, he gets veto power over such decisions. And he has said, "No more pictures, Mom. Use the ones you already have." He also gets to wear his pants on backwards and his hair over his ears and flipping up in the back, thanks to the 5 month sabbatical from grooming. Such decisions are his, since they don�t appear to belong in Basket A (ever read The Explosive Child by Ross Greene?), and are not a priority when one steps back to view life�s �Big Picture�.

So, I satisfy myself with ancient photos of a laughing boy in a baby pool and his teasing eyes looking up from a puppy hug. Yet I still crave the chance to document on film or digital-whatever-ness this boy who is not so much a boy as a year ago. Who is taller and thinner-in-the-face. Whose eyes have seen more of life and appear to look longer and deeper in a glance. I don't want to ever forget this year, for what a year it has been. Out of sheer respect, however, my camera stays behind the cabinet door. It�s mere presence is a threat, for some reason. So it gets dusty in my quest to represent a safe haven for my son once again.

Yesterday, he came home from the hospital for a visit. We were all nervous and excited to be together as a family. After chasing the �bad guys� through the yard and looking for squirrels in the woods, he came inside to find his sister. �What�s this?�, he asked, as he displayed a large cut of fake leopard-skin fur. �This is my new leopard costume.� He grinned as he wrapped the fabric around his shoulders and hunched low in a prowl. �Hey, where are my crocs?� he asked as he searched for his Fantastic Four monster shoes that were an abandoned Christmas present from several years back. I cracked up that he called them �crocs�--the popular plastic slip-on shoe that has become the uniform of many of the staff on his hospital unit. The orange, over-sized monster shoes were certainly more unsightly than the real crocs, but the resemblance was there, and the comparison was pure Wynn. We velcroed them over his feet and he pursed his lips in satisfaction. As he stood there, all fake-fur and giant-footedness, the framer and scrapbooker in me longed to make this a kodak moment. To click it, print it , crop it, and frame it . The moment was rich--full of all the good things that are my son.

Instead, I stared harder and breathed deeper as I witnessed this moment and willed it to last just a little bit longer. I noted with clarity each detail, tucking it deep within the recesses of my mind, recognizing that the image belonged to me and me alone.

�What are you looking at?� asked my son as his furry spots turned in a sweep and stomped out of sight.