This week I visited a friend and her two daughters, one of whom was adopted just five months ago. When she set her phone down I couldn’t help but notice the lock screen on her phone was a picture of her children. Which seems pretty natural, right? I mean most parents have pictures of their kids on their lock screen - as do I - the difference is that mine is still of Jackson and Adelaide, not Jackson and Strawbaby. I haven’t changed the photo since before Adelaide died. It didn’t really strike me as a big deal until recently when I’ve begun to acknowledge and accept that my family looks different now.

My conundrum got me thinking about a piece written by Genny Jessee earlier this year. Genny founded the June Jessee Memorial Foundation following the loss of her daughter several years ago. In her essay she spoke about all the ways we feel like we betray our loved ones by accepting or initiating change after their death:

“I felt it when we moved from the home that June lived in with us and where she subsequently died. I feel it every time a stranger asks me how many kids I have and I only say two so as to not get into the depths of our tragedy. I feel it every year we send a Christmas card, and she isn’t included in some way. And then, I feel it at the thought of contemplating changing the photo on my phone’s lock screen.”

Until this point, it hadn’t dawned on me that other people were also holding on to their lock screen photos like a baby to their binky. She went on to acknowledge that our loved ones who have died are not going to be, nor should they be, the center of our lives anymore. And that’s ok! I would add that I’m also pretty sure our deceased loved ones don’t really care whether they remain on our lock screens or not. Rationally, I’m quite aware of all of this yet I still haven’t been able to bring myself to change the photo. Which is also fine, it’s really not a big deal and if it makes me happy to have her image on my phone then so be it.

But I could never let it be that simple.

My brain starts to churn and wonder what message I’m sending to Strawbaby that my lock screen picture remains Jackson and Adelaide. Again irrational, she’s three and isn’t paying attention to this sort of thing. But still…

What is it about this silly lock screen that feels like such a big freaking deal? This of course coming from the same woman who has worn a ladybug necklace of one type or another for close to 90% of the time since Adelaide died. When I have taken it off, the action itself feels akin to being forecefully stripped naked against my will… even though I am the one doing it. And even though I have a ladybug tattooed on my arm! I mean, it doesn’t get much more symbolically permanent than that. But still…

Lock screens and jewelry may seem like small changes but they represent a larger acceptance and step away from our loved person. They are public symbols that any one in our presence can bear witness to. 

Then, two days ago, Strawbaby was pointing at the photo magnets on our fridge that I had made for her not long after she came to live with us. My intent was for there to be photos of our family, including her, that she could hold and play with, ie. not in breakable and smudgable glass frames.

“Mommy and Strawbaby, Daddy and Strawbaby, Grandma and Basco, Nana and Jackson, Ladybug.” Strawbaby said pointing to each person on on the various magnets.

“What did you say?” This has been a favorite game of hers for months now, pointing out all her people in photographs but this time she’d said something she’s never said before. 

“Mommy and Strawbaby, Daddy and Strawbaby, Grandma and Basco, Nana and Jackson, Ladybug. I did it!” She exclaimed quite pleased with herself.

It hadn’t been an accident, I had heard her correctly. She had pointed to a picture of Adelaide and called her ladybug. Now, to be sure we have ladybugs all over our house, but I have never made an attempt to explain to a three-year-old that the ladybugs were a symbol for Adelaide. In fact, aside from pointing out photos of Adelaide and explaining that she was her sister but that she’s gone now, we really haven’t gone much deeper. It is also worth noting that most of the time that Strawbaby has seen photos of Adelaide she has assumed that they were photos of herself as a baby. So, for all these reasons and more, Strawbaby pointing to a picture of Adelaide and calling her ladybug stole my breath for just a moment. 

And then the moment was over because Strawbaby was on to the next activity or screaming for a snack or something else that didn’t allow me time to really process what had just happened. 

I’m not sure what it means, if it means anything at all. Adelaide does sound like ladybug, after all that is how the nickname came to me in a dream when I was pregnant with her. Maybe Strawbaby had just confused or conflated the two words. Or maybe she has a connection with her ladybug sister that I am not privy too. Either way, the acknowledgment of Adelaide or “ladybug” in a photo was the bridge I needed to feel comfortable or at least brave enough to take the leap and change my lock screen.

It’s possible I’ll regret it and if I do I can always change it back… but I don’t think I will.