Pictures Only Tell Half the Story – Part 1

I spend a lot of time wishing I was really really good at something. Like my sister is a great artist, and my husband can play like 8 instruments and compose music. He even composed the piece that the band played while I walked down the aisle – he called it “Super Awesome Girl’s Walking Song.” 😊

I find myself to be a real modern-day renaissance women – just mildly good at a bunch of stuff. But today I came to a realization – I am REALLY GOOD at making it look like I have my sh*t together! 

I always feel guilty when I am complimented on pictures of my girls or on the activities that I do with them. That’s really only like 35% of my day. The rest is tears, poop, whining, crying, eye poking and other nonsense that all moms of toddlers can relate to. But really, who wants to see my almost 2 1/2 year old daughter’s poop-filled underpants? Or one of my twins who likes to be shirtless so she can play with her nipples? Not to mention the other one who just discovered her lady parts.

Maybe I am slightly better than good at photography. Okay, my picture-taking skills are pretty awesome. I can’t really lie about that. It just gets better with practice, I think. I LOVE to share my photos of the girls. Just like I love to see the photos that all my Facebook friends and relatives post of the little ones in their lives. The good ones and the bad ones. 

If it seems like I am preoccupied with taking photos… well it’s because I am. My mother had very few pictures of herself as a child. I remember her telling my siblings and I about a lost or stolen family trunk that had the family photos in it. Since she died, a few photos of her (from her siblings and other relatives) have been passed on to us. But it’s only a few. There are albums full of photographs of my siblings and I. But by the time I came around, child number three, there were not as many. Some tee ball team pictures, some father daughter dance pictures, a Disney vacation, but nothing to mark the passage of time in a clear way. I can’t tell you how old I am in any of the pictures of my childhood because there is no consistency. I am a very organized and slightly OCD person. Consistency is my jam. 

My mother got sick when I was fifteen, and died when I was seventeen. There were no deep discussions of life, no pouring over old photo albums. No thought to even ask the questions that I would someday be desperate to know the answers to (about pregnancy, and kids, etc.). I don’t want my girls to ever be in that boat. While I still plan to die after some awesome sex with my husband when we are 100, I know to prepare for the unexpected. And I think taking so many photographs, and marking the change in month, or year, or holiday, is my way of securing that information for my girls.  

And I have a very strict system. Sure, how I back up my photos is a little paranoid. But it gives me peace to know they will always be there.

1. About once a month (when my phone fills up) I send the best pics to CVS for prints. It literally takes me 30 seconds to send them through the Kodak app.

2. At the store, I download all the photos on my phone to archive CDs to store by month in my safe at home.

3. I download the photos to iPhoto on my computer and then delete them from my phone

The printed monthly pictures of the girls get put in little photo albums (to break out at yearly birthdays or whatnot). The rest of the prints either end up in frames, on a photo board or sent to school with my husband for his photo board.
It sounds complicated, but it’s really not. I am eased knowing that no matter what happens. My girls will have these photos to look back on, should they want to. 

My only wish, in all of this picture taking, is that my husband learns how to take some decent photos. His pics with the girls are stellar. Pictures of me with the girls that are barely passable… and even then there aren’t too many of those. 


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