As my mom’s birthday approached, I decided to share a nostalgic throwback of her on my personal Facebook page. It was a classic shot from her youth, probably taken in the 70s, that perfectly captured her carefree spirit as she lounged in the backyard. I knew exactly which photo to pick from the dusty collection of childhood albums nestled under my bed.
Upon opening the first album, I was greeted by familiar sights: my mom soaking up the sun on a woven aluminum chair, sprawled out on a vintage tweed couch next to a macrame plant holder, and sharing laughs with my dad in front of his motorcycle. There were countless gems featuring her radiant smile, but where were all the kids? Likely off playing unsupervised down the street, a rarity in today’s world of overprotective parenting. It’s no wonder she looked so relaxed—her generation wasn’t burdened by the guilt or pressures of helicopter parenting.
As I typed a heartfelt birthday message to my mom, I couldn’t help but wonder if my sons would ever find a photo of me like that in the future. I glanced over at the towering stack of scrapbooks in my living room filled with memories of their childhood: first steps, birthdays, graduations, and family trips. Yet, as I flipped through the pages, I realized that I was often missing from those moments. The only picture of me I could dig up was one taken in a hospital bed, cradling my newborn.
What happened to my identity beyond motherhood? Somewhere along the way, I had become the family photographer—the one behind the camera, documenting my children’s lives while neglecting to capture my own. Sure, I have a few selfies, mostly taken post-run to motivate others or celebrating the rare occasion I managed to clean up. My Instagram is filled with pictures of food (five males to feed, after all), nature, and countless images of my boys in action. But where are the images of me, the woman behind the mom?
The last time I was truly carefree in a picture was on my honeymoon, almost 18 years ago. Since then, I’ve spent my life in kitchens, bleachers, and classrooms, focusing solely on making my kids’ lives memorable. But what about my own story? What legacy of me will my children be able to find when they reminisce?
As my own mom celebrates her special day, I realize the valuable lesson she’s imparted: the importance of being present in my life, not just theirs. Inspired, I asked my 11-year-old son to take a picture of me on our front porch. “Just you?” he asked, surprised. “Yes, just me,” I replied. “In thirty years, I want you to be able to find this picture and remember who I was too.”
So, fellow moms, it’s your turn now. Step into the spotlight of your own life. Capture your essence for your children to cherish in the future.
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Summary:
The article emphasizes the importance of moms capturing their own images and stories, not just those of their children. It reflects on the author’s realization of being absent in her own family photos and encourages mothers to step into the frame for future generations to remember them.
Keyphrase: capturing motherhood memories
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