He appeared out of nowhere, a little boy bouncing with little boy energy. Not one to waste time, he approached Dan and I without hesitation and began talking in toddler-speak. And we all know toddler-speak is hard to interpret, especially when it’s not being spoken in English.
But I digress.
After acknowledging him with a doting smile, we did what any normal grandparents would do. We looked around for his parents, who were nowhere to be found. Which isn’t the best case scenario when you’re on a beach awaiting the sunset—much less anywhere else. So we did the other thing normal grandparents would do. We stayed put and instituted Operation Lost Child.
As he played in the sand building little mounds around us, the obvious conversation between Dan and I began.
“You don’t think he got lost, do you?”
“Nah, I’m sure they’ll show up any minute,” Dan said. And while I heard what he said, I saw the look on his face. “Hey, hon. I’ll be right back—gonna take a few photos.”
Which was his way of saying, “Stay here with him, and hopefully when I get back, his parents will be here.”
Except that they weren’t.
“Where’s Mama?” I said to the little boy. (Thank goodness for universal words, am I right?!).
“Mama!” he exclaimed as he looked at me and smiled.
I felt like I was living a page straight out of P.D. Eastman’s book, Are You My Mother? What’s worse is I started wondering what the odds were that such a scenario—ie I would be his new mother—would shake out.
At this point, Dan was at about a 2.5 on the DEFCON scale, as he entertained visions of he and I carting the little one to the nearest police station—without a car seat, no less—to explain what had happened. And of course the leap from police station to adoption seemed the logical next step. And just like that, Dan’s dreams of retirement, daily golf, and our vacations around the world would necessarily be replaced by hockey lessons and CCD classes.
I, on the other hand, was taking a more motherly approach to the situation. He’d need a name of course. So we’d name him Francisco Liguori Cotter. Franco for short. Because nobody would mess with a name like that. Obviously, we’d need to do a full immersion into his native language, as well.
I’d order a closet full of clothes from @Gymboree, and throw in a few bow ties for Mass. We’d send him to the finest Catholic schools and groom him for the priesthood. And just as I was planning the party to follow his ordination, a woman approached us on the beach.
“Would you like me to take a photo of the three of you?”
Through nervous laughter we declined her offer, explaining that he wasn’t ours. At least not yet. She did take a photo of Dan and I, though.
After that, I took another look around the beach. A new couple had take a seat on a bench several yards away and dozens of people had come—and gone—since our ordeal began. So I decided to ask little Franco about his parents one more time.
“Where’s Mama?”
This time, he looked around and pointed to the couple on the bench.
“Mama!”
I gotta tell ya. It’s tough to say which emotion was stronger in that moment: was it relief? or disappointment for what could have been? Because in the past 15 minutes, we’d had an opportunity to let our imaginations run wild with the thought of taking in another child just as we’d emptied our own nest of children. At the end of the day though, we were elated to see him reunite with his real mama and papa.
As fate would have it, I attended Mass the next day and discovered to my amazement that it was the Feast Day of none other than Saint Alphonsus Liguori. Of course it was.
In retrospect, I sure wish we’d have agreed to that photo, if for no other reason than posterity. Regardless, the memories of little Franco will likely stay with us for years to come. And if you ever meet a priest by the name of Francisco Liguori, give us a call, won’t you?
#catholiclife #catholicwriters #catholicwritersofinstagram #venicefl #storiesfromthebeach #saintalphonsusliguori #memories #catholicparents #catholicgrandparents #goodandholypriests #sunsetsonthebeach
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