My mom is the only person who takes photos of me. Without my asking or posing. She just sees me doing something, it stands out to her, and she takes a picture. Those pictures are always special to me. She has a way of capturing the very normal and still special moments from her view. The only other way I end up with photographic proof of my existence is if I ask someone to take a picture of me, or take it of myself. While those are perfectly fine, It still stirs something tender in me to see myself the way my mom sees me.
I brought the kids over to my parents house this week for a sleepover. I had a doctor’s appointment only 20 minutes from there in the morning so I planned a trip of it. we had such a great evening and then after my appointment, we went to her pool. We pretty much had the place to ourselves and I got to cool off in the water, warm up in the sun, and repeat for hours while we watched the kids jumping in and out of the water. My mom snapped this picture of me and the kids from her chair. Her, watching me, watching my daughter and son.
I don’t know what it’s like to have adult children. It seems really hard. Hard to let them fall on their face. Hard to know when to swoop in and save the day. Hard to know when to help and when to give space. Just hard. I can imagine that in a way, I’ll always see my kids as 4 1/2 and swimming with arm bubbles and a big smile on their face. Probably safe without me, yet I can’t break my protective and loving gaze from the edge. Encouraging them in their abilities, but ready to dive in at the first sign of trouble.
The way my mom did when she took this picture of me.