I ask my husband, “Hey, can you take a picture of me?”
“Sure.” I hand him my phone and he presses the button a few times. Then he hands me back my phone.
I check it. He’s somehow caught me looking like a frog about to jump out of a pot of boiling water. My mouth is ajar, eyes half-closed, arms flailing and chin-doubled … or shall I say tripled? Don’t even get me started on my hair that resembles more like Einstein’s mop than Aniston’s iconic locks.
I sigh. Whatever. I justify it in my head. Maybe when the kids are older and they see these awful pictures of me, they’ll finally understand the toll they took on their tired, old mother?
Like most moms, I’m usually the one behind the camera, capturing the precious moments in our family.
When I go through all the photos that have been taken over the years, I would say I’m in less than 20% of them.
Most of them are of the kids, candidly documented in their natural state, playing, eating, sleeping, and even a few cute ones of them pooping.
The next batch would be of my husband, perfectly caught, walking in-step with my daughter, looking lovingly at his kids, or laughing with his eyes closed with his crow's feet expressing pure joy.
Then there are the photos of me. I’m in the background, blurred, in the middle of completing a task. Or I’m front and center, about to yell, mid-sentence, a little too candid for my liking.
About a year ago, as I was busy snapping away on my phone of my kids in the living room, my daughter comes up to me and asks, “Can I try?”
At first, I was hesitant. I didn’t want her to touch my phone.
Aside from her dropping it, I didn’t want her to accidentally send a text to my friends, possibly attaching those horrendous photos my husband just took of me.
But I push those worries aside. She’s 4 and I’m right here beside her. We’re standing on a fluffy soft carpet. What’s the worst that could happen?
I give her my phone, instruct her to hold onto it tight, and to be careful.
Then, she points the phone at me. She asks, “Do I push the circle?”
I nod. She taps away while the phone’s lens hunts me like prey. I feel a little out of my element but I’m anxious to see what she captured.
She hands me back my phone. I quickly open up the gallery and start swiping through the photos.
A few were of her finger. A couple cut off my head. One showed half my face. Most of them were blurry. But then, lo and behold, there was one that I actually looked decent in.
After that day, I started teaching my daughter how to take pictures on my phone. I’m not a professional or anything, but I do have a few tricks up my sleeve. From explaining how to hold the phone so that it doesn’t shake to taking advantage of natural lighting, she’s been learning the basics of photography.
I often like to criticize how social media and phone addiction have created a generation that is self-obsessed and narcissistic. I’m guilty of mindlessly scrolling through Instagram when the kids are asleep. And before I know it, an hour has gone by and it’s way past my bedtime. It’s definitely a habit that’s hard to break, and I want to blame technology for my behavior.
However, what I sometimes forget are the incredible conveniences of a phone.
Unlike how photos were taken was when I was my daughter’s age, we can now point, shoot, and most importantly, delete as necessary. To learn from trial and error no longer requires the cost of a dozen rolls of film and days of waiting for photos to be developed. It can happen within seconds.
Lastly, pictures don’t need to be shared. They don’t need to be validated with likes, hearts, thumbs, fingers, or toes. They can be enjoyed between two people, in-person, as a fun learning experiment.
It’s been a wonderful way for my daughter and me to be creative together and look at the beauty in the world, one tap at a time. Those additional photos of me in our family albums are just icing on the cake.
