Why We Have No Pictures of Our Trip to Charleston

We were driving down I-77 on our way to Charleston when my friend Julie called. The Boy snoozed deeply in his car seat, exhausted from a whirlwind of Trader Joe's, suburban toy store where he claimed for his own a pink and camouflage soccer ball, and lunch at a restaurant with lots of noise and people to smile at. The sun was shining, we had a real vacation ahead of us, and I hadn't found the time to chat on the phone in weeks.

"Take lots of pictures," Julie said before ending our call.

"Oh, of course," I assured her. Hubby and I are feeling more than a little bit guilty about the fact that we haven't taken pictures of our son since Christmas. He is now 25% older than he was then and has at least 25% more hair.

We arrived at the coast in the late afternoon, bypassing downtown for our hotel in the suburbs of Mt. Pleasant. This is how grown-up parenthood has made us. When booking a hotel, I felt that traveler reviews of the cheap beachside one noting "black stuff on the bathroom floor" surely justified upgrading to the Homewood Suites by Hilton. Even more startling, Hubby agreed.

So here we were, in The Boy's ideal vacation playground. Living room stretched into bedroom opened into vanity ending in a mirrored closet door perfect for smearing one's hands on and making funny grinning faces at. Carpet covered all floors in one continuous piece so one's newly walking feet did not have to adjust to changes in texture, nor practice the difficult art of not tripping over the edges of area rugs. There were TWO television sets with on/off buttons within easy reach, and Mommy and Daddy didn't seem to care one bit how many times they were pushed. Perhaps best of all, there were no hounds knocking one over, licking one in the face, or otherwise causing frustration. Nor were there hounds to feed at mealtime, but that hardly mattered when so many other joys awaited.

True to my word, I took many pictures in the hotel room: The Boy carrying his new pink and camouflage soccer ball; The Boy looking out the window into the parking lot; The Boy playing with his reflection in the mirrored closet.

The next morning we started out for a day downtown with a well-packed diaper bag, changes of clothes, and, of course, the camera.

It is worth taking a moment to say that Charleston is a really lovely city. My eyes drank in the ocean, my nostrils opened eagerly to the smell of salt air, and my heart sang with the joy of walking and walking and walking amidst a constant swirl of pedestrians, shops, and restaurants. My skin felt a bit left out, as it waited eagerly for the warm sunshine I had promised myself, but, alas, 73 degrees is 73 degrees, and when you're on the ocean it is sometimes even colder.

After parking the car and engaging in much coaxing, running, and swerving, we finally got The Boy to settle into his stroller. He spotted a dog, pointed and yelled joyfully, and forgot for a few moments the indignity of sitting way down at adult hip level while the rest of us saw the world from a more advantageous height. We pointed out the horse-drawn carriages that fill the historic downtown streets, and he gazed with serious interest, trying to figure out how to categorize these dog-like creatures that were even bigger than Audrey.

And then we found the playground.

What joy to watch your little one taking the straddled, Frankenstein steps of new walkers, climbing the stairs to the slide, and then skillfully turning himself around and sliding down feet first on his belly. He really didn't need his mother, except when his second foot got stuck and threatened to remain at the top of the slide as the rest of his body proceeded toward the bottom.

Feeling a deep appreciation of the public space inspired by a long, long Asheville winter, I struck up a conversation with another mother. I never even noticed Hubby adding to our collection of pictures of The Boy. I certainly didn't take note of where the camera was when I returned with The Boy to the top of the slide and yelled at Hubby to take his position at the bottom. It wasn't until some time before we realized we had lost one of The Boy's shoes on the streets of Charleston that we realized we had left the camera in the playground.

To be honest, I was more upset about the shoe than the camera. New cameras can be purchased with a shrug of "it happens" and a comforting "it's okay" meal at Sticky Fingers (home of the Stephen Colbert portrait) for Hubby. But justifying another $40 for really cute blue Chuck Taylor-like shoes with laces that must be painstakingly double-knotted or tied every other minute is more difficult. We stopped at the Target just across the parking lot from our hotel (did I mention how convenient it is to stay in the 'burbs with children?) and bought him some sandals, but it just wasn't the same.

Nor was using the video camera to record his rounds on the pirate ship slide at the Charleston Aquarium. In fact, I was having way too much fun watching him lurch excitedly between tanks full of fish to be bothered with trying to record something we won't be able to figure out how to post on You Tube anyhow.

We headed home with The Boy wearing his new Target socks without shoes and no pictures to memorialize these fleeting, joyful days with our almost-fifteen-month-old. Incidentally, my hair dryer stayed in Charleston as well, completing our trifecta of lost things.

I could mourn the loss of precious reminders of The Boy growing up, but it would be a much better use of my time to just buy a new camera. After all, less than 24 hours after our arrival home The Boy had new shoes and I had a new hair dryer.

But sometimes I think things happen for a reason. Not that some stranger really needs pictures of our boy enjoying his time in the Homewood Suites. But it never hurts to be reminded to watch my child growing up with both eyes and my whole heart and no need for a camera in the way.