borrowing his innocence
He climbed into the backseat and buckled into his booster, clutching a stuffed llama he’d gotten at a friend’s birthday party the day before.
“Mommy, how many more days until my elves come back?”
“About three months, buddy.”
“And how many days until the first snow?”
“I don’t know. We live in the mountains. Could happen anytime now.”
The questions kept coming, each one layered with innocence and wonder.
I felt envious. Longing for elves and snow to be the only things on my mind, as I drove him down the mountain to school - less than a week after a shooting at the high school left two in critical condition, kids running for their lives, and my son, along with hundreds of others, locked down in his classroom with the sound of gunshots in the distance. His elementary school - just a stone’s throw from an active shooter.
My mind drifted back to the weekend before. Just he and I in the middle of the lake in a rented kayak, rain falling as sunlight scattered across the water. More questions then too, mostly about ducks and how long they could dive underwater, if we could ever have our own kayak, which bird I thought was prettiest.
Innocence on innocence on innocence.
A mile from school he asked, “Mommy, could you play Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer?”
“The Bing Crosby one?” I said.
“Yes, the one with the funny reindeer voice.”
So I did. On a balmy September day, windows down, Bing Crosby’s voice spilling out into the mountain air.
I try to borrow his joy. To lean into his innocence, even as I pray that, in this broken world full of broken people, he can hold on to his just a little while longer.
And I ask myself what I’m going to say when these questions inevitably get harder and he asks if he’s safe and if I can protect him.
