Scraggly circles with wriggly smiles. Hair sticking straight up, reed-like arms and
legs. Bodies made of round circles and
noses that take up half the face. Oddly
shaped rainbows, the Earth the size of the Sun and families where Mommy is
stick thin. For an added touch, the
artist's name is scrawled in capital letters, nearly overtaking the space
around the picture.
A house full of pictures that chronicle a lifetime of
memories. Smooth skin and curly hair,
clavicles that stick out and thin thighs that are long forgotten. A blushing
bride with a poufy veil. Bright smiles
of a honeymooning couple. Round,
pregnant belly awkwardly posed in front of a mountain of welcoming gifts. Brand new screaming babies. Proud, anxious parents. Grandparents in awe of their grandchild. First toothless smiles. Wobbly first steps. Vacation shots at the beach, mountains,
national monuments. Children with lost teeth.
There are haphazardly framed photographs in every corner of
my house. Carefully chosen, they reflect
moments that linger within my heart.
They chronicle the evolution of my life, motherhood: from fearful first-time mother to
more at ease mother of three.
For some, a picture might be a way capture an image of an
event, now forgotten. For me, they are a
reminder of how far we have come as a family, how far we still have to go. Pictures of John and I during our Senior Year
of high school, as engaged college students, as married homeowners. They help concrete the reality of things that
have been buried in the recesses of our often overloaded minds. They remind us of a simpler, more innocent time;
one without the many responsibilities that shackle us in adulthood, that serve
as a reminder that we were once younger and thinner. Maybe even cooler.
The pictures that mean the most, the ones that I treasure
the most are the ones made by the subjects of many of my photographs. My children's pictures line bulletin boards
in the kitchen; hang proudly, framed in our bathrooms; serve as inspiration at
school, where they are displayed next to phone lists and emergency procedures.
The pictures that my sons have drawn throughout the years
serve as a measure of how far they have come, and how far they have yet to
go. The ingenuous depictions of our
family, rendered in pencil, crayon, marker or finger paints hold a special place
in my heart. No matter what day I have
been dealt, what crisis I am wading through, a quick glance at Joshua's parade
of smiley faces, or Andrew's freehand Mickey's or Matthew's latest blueprints
for a new invention is sure to put a spring in my step.
What I have found the most rewarding of all is to sit and
thumb through my old childhood pictures, usually flanked by my boys. Their
laughter at long and thankfully forgotten fashions and hairstyles, their wonder
as they see that their mom was indeed a child herself, their surprise at seeing
their grandparents and great aunts and uncles much younger is an experience. Seeing myself, through their eyes, is
necessary. They don't see the baggage
that I carry: the worry if I am doing a good job mothering them, the sadness I
feel when I look at myself in some pictures, remembering a day long gone by,
another lifetime ago.
It gives me an opportunity to reflect as I sit and look at
my own children's multitude of digital shots over the years. The wonder of how much time has gone by. How much they have grown and learned. The bittersweet knowledge that this leg of
the journey is fleeting; they are become independent individuals.
It makes me wonder why there are so few pictures of me with
them? Is it that I am always the
recorder of the moments that make them giggle, frozen in a snapshot for all
time? Am I participating enough, yet
always hide behind the lens?
Yet, in the moments of self doubt, when I wonder if they are
okay, a small, or medium, or large hand will quietly slip unexpectedly into
mine.
Yes, they are okay. I
have the photographic evidence.
Without a camera, my eyes focus on the owner of that hand
within my own.
And my heart snaps the picture.
