Pictures

I used to hate pictures. I hated the way I looked. I hated the way my fat roll stuck out just a little too much or the way my teeth looked a little crooked. I hated how pale I looked or the way my hair was. It doesn’t matter. For the longest time I would hide from pictures, or do my best to make myself less noticable. I would usually offer to be the one holding the camera any chance I got. I regret that. I have three pictures with my mom from my wedding, three. I have very few pictures as an adult with my mother. Take the damn pictures. Who cares, who cares that your hair wasn’t perfect or you forgot to brush your teeth that morning. What matters is the memories. When the person is gone all you will have left is those pictures, take the damn pictures!

I now try to convince my husband to take pictures, take as many as he can. It won’t matter years from now that my bra strap was showing or I was barefoot. What will matter to my kids is they get so see their mom smiling. They get to look at that picture and remember on that specific day mom taught them to cook and that’s why they are gathered around the stove and she is covered in flour. Those pictures will make their hearts smile on the days I no longer can. I wish I had taken more pictures with my mom.

I regret always hiding, making myself as unseen as possible. I regret not having more of those pictures to look back on and see my mom and I happy. We had plenty of those times, but we didn’t take the pictures. I fully believe you can never have to many pictures.

I want the kids to be able to look back and remember how my eyes wrinkled when my smile reached them, or how my dimples looked. I want them to remember how the corners of my mouth pulled up. I want them to see a picture of me laughing and be able to recall how my laugh sounds. Take the damn pictures!