I realized recently, in looking through my iPhone photos over the last few months, that I have a few photography obsessions. I am clearly partial to black and white, and love sun flares. Most obviously, my children are my beautiful little muses. I am trying to record every carefree, childhood moment. I have an almost inexplicable compulsion to capture the wonder and magic they experience every day of the week.
Remember when unabashed laughter was a daily occurrence? An enveloping hug could cure pain? Remember when friendship was pure? When loving freely had never once led to hurt? To really believe that if you just swung high enough, you could go all the way around the swing set bar? A time before worry? When there was no safer place than nestled in your parents’ arms? That any wish, if wished hard enough, just might come true? When PJs, a super hero cape, and a tutu were acceptable regular-day wardrobe choices? That the best days involved playing with dirt? That Summer had a smell?
Childhood is such intense trust, belief, curiosity, possibility, and love. It’s sacred.
Maybe I’m trying to remember it a little myself, too.
I’m also clawing against time to hold onto my own memories as a mother, because I know my girls can’t stay like this, no matter how much part of me wishes they could. Right now, they’re completely mine. But someday, they won’t be in the same way. And, I also want that for them. I want them to go out into the world and live their lives with courage. Just not yet. So when they’re no longer across my bedroom hall, calling for Mommy, I will have my millions of photos to try and remember the sound of deep baby belly laughs, slobbery kisses, the most velvety skin, tickle wars, chubby cheeks, wide eyes draped in long lashes, sweet-smelling skin, wet hair and footie PJs just out of the bath, hours spent in the back yard, and just so many more things.
I want to keep it all. Forever.