No Bad Things

When the boys were little (9 and 4), we lived in the Picadilly, a wonderful, art-deco apartment building that was once a hotel and cinema. Everything about it oozed the Charleston, Speakeasies, Prohibition. There was a decrepit ballroom (with gorgeous views of downtown) on the top floor, and there were several, secret, underground floors with rows of "pay-by-the-hour" rooms, clearly used for - well, you know.

We often let the boys run around in the hallway on our floor, but I was worried that the younger one, R., might wander into the stairwell and end up God knows where. So, in a stroke of genius and not-at-all-problematic parenting, I told him there were "rat monsters" in the stairwell. My older son F. played along. Whenever we had to use the stairwell, R. would stick very close to us.

But naturally, it didn't last. One day, when the elevators weren't working, we were racing up the stairs, and R. took his time. When he got to the top and stepped into the hallway, I said to him, "You were lucky the rat monsters didn't get you!" He gave me such a look of reproach and said, "Mama. I know there are no bad things in the world."

I have never forgotten this, nor has my older son, who at that moment gave me such a sad and world-weary glance. It's a precious little gift of innocence I like to take out and ponder every once and a while. No bad things in the world.