Today, my youngest child turned 30 (my oldest is nearing 40). Acknowledging that fact can certainly make me feel old but I don’t want to dwell on my gray hair and what caused it, except … lately, I have been browsing through the photo album in my head. My family will tell you that my memory is faulty (I attribute that to just too much stuff to retain, but maybe it’s because there’s not enough gray matter – ha!). Nevertheless, there are some images I can pull from my memory and reminisce whenever I wish. I’m sure you have those too. It seems that even after decades, I can see the moment clearly, as though I was there again. Some of these are snapshots and some are snippets of video.
I can still see my daughter, Amanda, on her first birthday. She wore the special outfit I bought her- red tights and a white print top with red rickrack trim (it now resides in the cedar chest upstairs). She was walking and pretty steady on her feet that day. She didn’t yet have enough hair to look like a little girl.
Jump to Monday of this week. I added a new picture to the photo album in my head. I stood in the parking lot of a clinic and watched Amanda, long, dark, silky hair swinging as she carried her sick six-year-old daughter in to see the doctor. Evie is almost too big to carry now but she wasn’t feeling well. Her arms and legs dangled as she rested her head on Amanda’s shoulder. My baby was carrying her baby. OK, sorry for the mush but sometimes, I think my heart will just burst with love and pride. I know that picture will forever remain in my head, too. (Evie is on the mend now.)
In my head, there is a picture of my new baby daughter’s face the very first time I saw her. There are pictures of her on the first day of school, waiting on the school bus with her name pinned to her new jumper; pictures from her first dance revue (she was a bunny and scarcely moved on stage); there’s a picture of her sobbing from watching “Old Yeller,” pictures of her laughing in her room with a group of girls at a sleep over; then there was graduation, the wedding, and the births of her three children … the picture album in my head seems infinite, and yet, I wish I could remember all of it, every moment. So many pictures are “out of focus” or missing. That makes the images I do have in my head all the more precious and important.
So, it must be karma or fate or a natural extension of who I am or something, that I now make pictures of babies, children, young adults, so that their parents can remember how they thought their hearts would burst with love and pride. This is the best job in the world – it’s what I was meant to do.
Happy Birthday, Amanda!
(Oh - Eric, my almost 40 year old baby boy, will have to wait for his June birthday to see what I have to write about him.)