I avoid photographic evidence of my existence these days. To be honest, I avoid even mirrors. When I see myself in pictures, it makes me wince. I know I am far from alone; I know that many of my friends also avoid the camera.
It seems logical. We're sporting mama bodies and we're not as young as we used to be. We don't always have time to blow dry our hair, apply make-up, perhaps even bathe (ducking). The kids are so much cuter than we are; better to just take their pictures, we think.
But we really need to make an effort to get in the picture. Our sons need to see how young and beautiful and human their mamas were. Our daughters need to see us vulnerable and open and just being ourselves -- women, mamas, people living lives. Avoiding the camera because we don't like to see our own pictures? How can that be okay?
Too much of a mama's life goes undocumented and unseen. People, including my children, don't see the way I make sure my kids' favorite stuffed animals are on their beds at night. They don't know how I walk the grocery store aisles looking for treats that will thrill them for a special day...
Someday, I want them to see me, documented, sitting right there beside them...
I'm everywhere in their young lives, and yet I have very few pictures of me with them. Someday I won't be here -- and I don't know if that someday is tomorrow or thirty or forty or fifty years from now -- but I want them to have pictures of me. I want them to see the way I looked at them, see how much I loved them. I am not perfect to look at and I am not perfect to love, but I am perfectly their mother.
When I look at pictures of my own mother, I don't look at cellulite or hair debacles. I just see her... I didn't care that she didn't look like a model. She was my mama. (Article condensed)
I know over the years I have ducked away from the camera more times than I care to count. I am sporting an extra forty pounds from my three kids (eek, did I just admit that?). How many pictures have I deleted because I didn't like the way I looked? Yet, what happens when I am gone? I want my kids to not only have memories of me, but pictures--actual tangible evidence--that I was there with them. Day in and day out. I was there. I'm not saying that I have to be in every picture, but I need to include myself in the pictures even when I am feeling less than stellar, because seriously, how often do we really feel we look the best, or have the picture taken at just the right angle to make you look good?
My grandma is a perfect example. For years and years she avoided the camera, so we don't have many pictures of her looking at the camera smiling. We have candid shots here and there that we were able to sneak in, but what about all the missed shots? I want to be able to proudly show my children their great-grandmother when they are older. See, she was there. This is your great-grandma holding you; playing with you.
A picture is worth a thousand words. A picture can bring back memories long forgotten. A moment captured can remind you of so much more than just what is visually in front of you.
This picture, for example, reminds me that we went to Cascade falls, and that it was one of our first "real" outings with Kai. It was before he was vented. He had been fussy so I was holding him and J thought it was a perfect spot for a picture. Zuri had been fascinated with playing with a stick and didn't want to come over for a picture at first. It was a testament to us getting out and not letting Kai's disabilities keep us from doing the things we love. It was a first step in showing him the world.
I want my children to see me. Forty pounds extra, hair messed up, and even pajamas on; because this is me--now. So, I am going to make a tremendous effort not to duck away when the camera is pointed my way. I am going to be included in the pictures, and even start doing *gasp* selfies with my children, because honestly, when you let go of "perfection," aren't they fun?
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