Memories.....

Tony and I ran out to the bookstore this morning for a coffee break (we get 10% off at the Starbucks inside Barnes & Noble, no doubt because they know we will be lured into buying $30 of books we don't need the minute we walk in the door) and while we were there, we decided to look at the baby books.

Not the pregnancy books, of which I already own more than my share. Not the childbirth books, five of which I just checked out from the library. And not the baby-name books, of which I own one that I've never really used. (I knew from the beginning my child was going to be named Fiberglass Cadillac Aurelius Coutsoftides. What can I say? I'm an NFL fan.) No, we were looking at the "baby's first year" books. The pregnancy and baby journals. The sticky-sweet Peter Rabbit-illustrated books with little lines to fill in and pockets to fill with hospital wristbands and other baby detritus.

As you might have guessed, I'm not a fan. I find this kind of forced remembering to be a bit false and treacly, but it seems to be expected of parents, especially first-timers like Tony and me. After the first one, you seem to get a pass on any journaling or even photography. I know this because I have my baby book. (I was third and last in my family order.) It has two things written in it. My date of birth and the fact that I stood up at seven months. Anything beyond that, I'm on my own.

We also have a hard time finding photos of me either at birth or in the immediate time after. Mom and I are always digging through boxes, looking at photos of my oldest brother and of my other brother. There were 10 years between them, so mom had plenty of time to start photographing again. For me, she had three minutes a month to document anything, because when I was born, Levi was only 18 months old and we had a farm to run. If aliens landed on earth and had only my baby pictures upon which to base their understanding of child development, they would expect all babies to be born and then, 10 minutes later, be walking, talking and breaking a cat's neck with their bare hands. (I have actual photo documentation of this event. I've never been a huge animal person.)

And honestly, I don't care. I've never been the girl who has her camera strapped to her hand at all times. I'm irritated by people who feel the need to see the world through the viewfinder of a camera. I'd rather experience things as they happen rather than take time to pose everyone so that future generations can know by looking at the photos that we were having a great time. Tony and I are kindred spirits in this. We have been known to take our camera on vacation, only to get home and realize we never took it out of the suitcase. There are approximately 12 pictures of our entire three-year relationship, not counting the wedding, where we hired an amazing professional to make us look much better than we do in real life. (If I could, Steph would follow me around every day, making me look amazing.)

(The paradox to this is that I love looking at photography. I feel that a good photographer can speak volumes about what is happening. I'll go to a photography exhibit at a museum any day of the week. Just don't ask me to be the one who takes the pictures, and for Pete's sake, don't slow down my sightseeing by snapping 42 pictures of a building that looks better on a postcard in the gift shop.)

But I understand this is part of the job of parenting. In addition to the awesome stuff like teaching them to read and how to create snakes from Play-Doh, I also have to extensively photograph my children doing these things. And then preserve these photographs in albums or something. (Now all my photos are digital, and in a giant file on whatever computer I used last.)

I find that this is actually the most daunting part of parenting for me. One of us, me or Tony, will have to suck it up and start snapping photos. (And we all know what that means. I'll have to suck it up and Tony will get to live blithely on, photographing nothing.) We even agreed today at the bookstore that we will probably have to get a video camera, heaven help us. The thought of being stuck behind that lens while everyone else gets to have a great time, unencumbered by technology or documentary responsibility makes my stomach hurt. But I also don't want to take the chance that my kids will feel somehow cheated if their mom is the only one who says, "What camera?" at every special event.

So I've come up with a workable solution. My mom is going to have to attend and photograph every special event. We'll consider it payback for my undocumented youth.