I know I wrote about photography yesterday but, the truth is, that’s what I am. What I do when I’m not writing or mothering or laundering or baking cupcakes or occasionally sleeping. And it’s still my birthday week so it’s Blogger’s Choice as to the subjectry here this week.
I’ve mentioned a few times that I’m never in pictures. I’m behind the camera. I’m saying things like, “No, look at the camera,” or, “Say boogers and cookies!” I’m trying to line up a non-posed-but-posed shot. I’m arguing with my lens. I’m filling up my memory card. I’m silently cussing because I’m in manual mode and it looks as if I just took a picture of my family in a blizzard, all whiteness. I’m snapping their smiles, their tears, their funny faces, their angry faces, their artwork, their messy rooms, their sand creations and their sleeping bodies because that’s the only time that they’re not in motion.
I’ve heard many a mom complain, lament and agree that they’re never in the pictures. I have those feelings, that sadness that it looks as though I don’t exist. I can probably tell you what I was wearing on the day of any given picture, my photography extending to a brain that remembers totally useless things like what I was wearing on the first day of kindergarten. Or ninth grade. Or college. Or a new job. And so maybe that’s why I’m giving up this lament, right now, that I’m never in pictures.
I know I was there.
I’m the one who took the picture. I’m the one who ran back inside to get the camera. I’m the one who encouraged them to keep blowing bubbles. I’m the one who sat on the deck for twenty minutes, endlessly snapping pictures of bubble blowing in hopes of getting that one shot, that perfect shot. That memory to last a lifetime.
And I’m the one who took this picture.
In case you need to know, I was wearing black yoga pants and a gray shirt. I was barefoot. And I was so in love with my family.