The Only Child
It was a cool September morning, our last hurrah, so to speak before summer ended. I had been envisioning this morning before we even moved to the mountains. I wanted this to be one of the first things I did when we moved. I was a portrait photographer and I wanted to create a beautiful portrait of my two little boys at the river's edge.
Dressed in coordinating outfits, bare foot, but never complaining, I directed Jameson and Rhys to sit together on a rock that sat above the water. Naturally, they sat right next to each other and without even being asked, put their arms around each other and cuddled.
Their love for each other shone through with that portrait. Rhys's admiration for his brother and Jameson's tender love in return. Rhys leaned on his brother's shoulder. Jameson held him up. Each gave a soft smile to the camera, perfectly content in the moment.
The moment was perfect. The boys were such wonderful little subjects and followed directions so well. The morning sun dappled through the trees, creating streaks of light hitting the river and making it sparkle. We left the river and went on to a day of hiking and swimming, enjoying time as a family.
The portrait taken from that morning was printed as a large, gorgeous canvas and sits above our mantle. I admired my two cuties every time I walked by.
And then I displayed this canvas at my son's funeral in February.
If you came into my home, you would see many other photographs in addition to the one over the mantle. They all depict a family of four- two parents and two brothers, close in age, who clearly loved each other. There are the portraits we took at the beach three years ago. One of Dan and his two boys in the fall at a park in Raleigh. A few baby pictures in our bedroom. The pictures hanging around our house show a family with two children.
And now there is only one. The only child.
It's one thing to grow up as an only child. A child who has never known life with siblings can be perfectly happy and well loved. It's another thing for an 8 year old boy to be thrust into the life of an only child.
Rhys and his big brother weren't even quite 16 months apart. Strangers always asked me if they were twins. They were so close in size that they shared clothes, toys, everything. Having Jameson as a brother was literally like a never ending playdate for Rhys. He always had someone his own age to play with.
Rhys and Jameson even made up many games that I am still learning about as Rhys tells me about all of the games and rules they made up together.
My heart breaks every day for the only child left behind after Jameson died. Rhys isn't the same. He gets bored easily. He asks to watch TV or play on his tablet. He and Jameson rarely asked for screen time because they were usually outside playing together. Rhys talks about the plot of the latest episode of the show he's watching and I cringe. I hate that Rhys wants to watch TV more now than ever, but who can blame him? It's an escape from the pain and without a brother to play with, life can be pretty boring. Mom and Dad only have so much time and energy to give towards play. I want Rhys to love to play outside, but when he doesn't have a playmate, it's just not the same. It's easier to just go inside and read or watch TV. I play with him as much as I have the energy for. We played catch in the driveway today. We went for a walk. We played in the stream behind our house. We read a little bit of a chapter book. But it's not the same as having a brother.
He sits alone on the basement floor using wooden blocks to build a track for some matchbox cars. If Jameson were here there would be all kinds of discussions about where the tracks should go, how to make them longer and more exciting, which cars to use. Without Jameson, his attention doesn't last. It's just not as much fun. Even with mom trying to take brother's place on the floor, it's not the same.
Please don't forget the only child. He's lost something too. He's lost his best friend, his brother, the person in the world who understands him best. He lost his family the way he knew it since the day he was born. That family and the security and happiness it brought are gone. Now we have to redefine our family, and it's a painful, slow, and unfair process.
Dressed in coordinating outfits, bare foot, but never complaining, I directed Jameson and Rhys to sit together on a rock that sat above the water. Naturally, they sat right next to each other and without even being asked, put their arms around each other and cuddled.
Their love for each other shone through with that portrait. Rhys's admiration for his brother and Jameson's tender love in return. Rhys leaned on his brother's shoulder. Jameson held him up. Each gave a soft smile to the camera, perfectly content in the moment.
The moment was perfect. The boys were such wonderful little subjects and followed directions so well. The morning sun dappled through the trees, creating streaks of light hitting the river and making it sparkle. We left the river and went on to a day of hiking and swimming, enjoying time as a family.
The portrait taken from that morning was printed as a large, gorgeous canvas and sits above our mantle. I admired my two cuties every time I walked by.
And then I displayed this canvas at my son's funeral in February.
If you came into my home, you would see many other photographs in addition to the one over the mantle. They all depict a family of four- two parents and two brothers, close in age, who clearly loved each other. There are the portraits we took at the beach three years ago. One of Dan and his two boys in the fall at a park in Raleigh. A few baby pictures in our bedroom. The pictures hanging around our house show a family with two children.
And now there is only one. The only child.
It's one thing to grow up as an only child. A child who has never known life with siblings can be perfectly happy and well loved. It's another thing for an 8 year old boy to be thrust into the life of an only child.
Rhys and his big brother weren't even quite 16 months apart. Strangers always asked me if they were twins. They were so close in size that they shared clothes, toys, everything. Having Jameson as a brother was literally like a never ending playdate for Rhys. He always had someone his own age to play with.
Rhys and Jameson even made up many games that I am still learning about as Rhys tells me about all of the games and rules they made up together.
My heart breaks every day for the only child left behind after Jameson died. Rhys isn't the same. He gets bored easily. He asks to watch TV or play on his tablet. He and Jameson rarely asked for screen time because they were usually outside playing together. Rhys talks about the plot of the latest episode of the show he's watching and I cringe. I hate that Rhys wants to watch TV more now than ever, but who can blame him? It's an escape from the pain and without a brother to play with, life can be pretty boring. Mom and Dad only have so much time and energy to give towards play. I want Rhys to love to play outside, but when he doesn't have a playmate, it's just not the same. It's easier to just go inside and read or watch TV. I play with him as much as I have the energy for. We played catch in the driveway today. We went for a walk. We played in the stream behind our house. We read a little bit of a chapter book. But it's not the same as having a brother.
He sits alone on the basement floor using wooden blocks to build a track for some matchbox cars. If Jameson were here there would be all kinds of discussions about where the tracks should go, how to make them longer and more exciting, which cars to use. Without Jameson, his attention doesn't last. It's just not as much fun. Even with mom trying to take brother's place on the floor, it's not the same.
Please don't forget the only child. He's lost something too. He's lost his best friend, his brother, the person in the world who understands him best. He lost his family the way he knew it since the day he was born. That family and the security and happiness it brought are gone. Now we have to redefine our family, and it's a painful, slow, and unfair process.
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