Hey, you—take the picture.

[Edited to note: While I feel confident that the folks seeing this post are primarily family and friends, the internet can be a scary place. Thus, the big purple dot over my kid's face in the picture below.]

I stumbled through the door that connects our garage to our laundry room after what felt like a day that would never end.

You’ve been there.

Tons on your TDL to accomplish in only 10ish hours' time, a meeting or two, and the emotionally vested conversations that leave you more tired than at peace about the topic of conversation.

Without slowing my stride, I tossed my pea-coat over the bouncer that is still taking up residence along one of our living room walls (many months after my son’s last bouncing session) and dropped my scarf on top of the small rocking chair that has been passed from child to child in my husband’s family for generations.

I could hear them just around the corner. I’d made it in time.

I found my son (and his dad) in his room--walking wobbly sporting a goofy grin and heavy eyes--winding down from what I can only imagine was the typical fun-filled guys’ night that occurs whenever I have to work late.

It was the time in our nightly routine where we read a book (or three) and while my husband is normally the reader and I am the rocker and calmer-downer, he said I should read and rock tonight. That our son had missed me. Gladly agreeing to his suggestion, I turned page after page while our son lifted and closed each flap in a Daniel Tiger cardboard book. 

In my peripheries, I could see my husband with his phone up in front of his face. 

While this might not seem that unusual for someone who’s just been relieved after a night of solo parenting, we don't use our phones during the nighttime routine. We want our son to know that all eyes are on him and that it is time to rest after what is usually a busy day for all of us in one way or another.

The book came to an end.

We read our prayer.

The big light went off. 

The night light came on.

I rocked the tiny wonder a little longer than usual.

Then I turned out the night light and left his room.

After we’d had a chance to catch up from the day over dinner, I asked my husband what he was doing while we were reading.

An Airdrop notification appeared on my phone alerting me I had the opportunity to accept six photos he wanted to share with me.

There we were.

My son and me.

Just us.

Candidly in these photos together.

Doing something ordinary.

Doing something we always do.

So, why did it mean so much to me that he’d taken them? 

Because I’m usually the one on the other side of the camera.

...said [almost] every mother ever.

Often moms so desperately want to capture every small and seemingly insignificant moment because we fear we’ll forget those very same moments as our children grow. And it sometimes feels as though no one is quite as dedicated to the same cause—particularly when it comes to making sure there are photos of us with our children.

It’s no one’s fault.

Maybe your spouse doesn’t take that many photos, period.

Maybe it just doesn’t occur to them that you’d want a picture of something as simple as reading a story together or feeding them a snack or rocking them to sleep.

Early on in motherhood, I decided I would not allow moments I wanted to capture of me and my son to pass. Which essentially equaled out to...

All. The. Selfies.

And while those are good and sweet at times (and I look back fondly on the ones we’ve taken), other times it can feel pretty silly or dumb when you try to no avail to capture a particular moment.

But not as silly and dumb—in my own experience—as asking your SO to take a picture of you with your kid.

I always think: 

He never asks for a picture to be taken.

He doesn’t obsess about it like I do.

So, I shouldn’t ask.

The selfies will do.

And the rest? Well, surely I’ll remember.

Except, I won’t.

I won’t remember how I felt the time that he was so feverish and no one else would do...when no one else could bring him peace but me.

I won’t remember that random Tuesday afternoon where I picked him up early from daycare just because it was a pretty day and I knew we’d have fun playing outside together.

I won’t remember the way he looked at me with delirious glee in his eyes and belly laughed so hard when I tickled him just before bath time.  

I won’t remember how he looked at me as though I might as well have been the only one besides him who was ever on the planet.

So, I beg of you (and I’m begging of me, too).

Tell them—your spouse, your partner, your co-parent, your whoever—to take the picture.

It might feel silly.

And strange.

And maybe even selfish.

But none of those are true.

You deserve to be in your child’s memories just as much as anyone else.

Your presence.

Your care.

Your time.

Your teaching.

Your comforting.

Your challenging.

Your love.

Just like the ones you so diligently try to capture of your children with others, your experiences with them are picture worthy, too, and need to be taken. So that when he or she is older—and you’re older—you’ll remember that your love for your child was and is a radiant and impactful and vital gift.

Mamas, don’t just be the one on the other side of the camera.

Tell them—for the sake of your children and your own sake as well—to take the picture. 

Every. Single. Time.

Thanks for reading, friends.

Deep Peace,

MK