I have only a slim photo album of my childhood. My mother had an early Polaroid camera, but the cost of film was prohibitive, so the pictures were taken infrequently. I only have a handful of my school photos, too; sadly, we couldn’t usually afford to purchase them so I only got to see the proofs the year they were taken.
But photography has changed quite a bit in (ahem) almost forty years, and my daughter’s life has had nearly every moment cataloged and photographed. I haven’t missed a moment; her first steps, taken at the playground; her first day of preschool, her first day of kindergarten; the opening of six birthdays worth of presents…
I’ve snapped it all.
I’m so grateful, frankly. My memory isn’t what it used to be (thanks to a long history of addiction and alcoholism); I deeply wish I had photos of my early years. I believe that I have fewer than twenty pictures of me from infancy to my high school graduation.
It’s sad, really.
But my daughter will never wonder what she looked like at age eight, or three, or five. She’ll always know. She has proof.
I’m very grateful.