It was a minor miracle, but it happened. We got a family photo.
It’s not fancy. I still have to book an actual photo sitting with a professional photographer. Being one myself, I already have one picked out. It will happen one day. It MUST happen one day.
Because to look at my child’s memory books is to wonder where the heck I am.
There’s me in the photo at her birth, taken by the doctor who delivered her.
There are a few from our Disney vacation, for which we paid through the nose (and during which she cried … because that’s what tired 4-year-olds do when their parents are really counting on them behaving).
There’s one from a birthday party, taken by a friend.
And then … well, I’m trying to think. Can you smell the smoke?
It’s the story of any camera-toting parent. There’s usually just one in a couple, one designated picture taker, and one designated picture sitter. Although ours is the twist in it all: I’m obsessive about my camera; he hates having his photo taken.
In fact when I posted this miracle photo, taken by a random fellow tourist at the Butterfly Conservatory in Niagara Falls a few weeks ago, a friend admitted she’d never seen my husband.
So we have photo after photo of our child doing what kids do: getting dirty, getting her face painted, in the tractor parade, on the swings, opening presents!
But we were there, I swear! And at least now I can prove it!
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