39 Photos

and the memories I still carry

We had family pictures taken today. Paul and I woke up early, poured mimosas, and put our coordinating sweaters on. This is a new tradition I’m starting, one that most — if not all — families do… an annual photoshoot.

I want to capture our life right now. The between babies season. The small messy house. The married couple. The happy dog. I want to remember this formative year as much as the others, even if it’s not as glittery.

We took pictures by our Christmas tree, in our backyard, laughing in our kitchen, and hugging Hugo in Teddy’s room. Esther, our photographer, made sure to take into account every element of our life right now and honor it. Even if it’s not as magical as we want it to be.

At some point we started talking about how many images people usually ask her for — five, ten, fifty, the whole gallery? She said some clients even request pictures from every pose, every glance, every outfit, every location. “Even if my eyes are closed!”

And I started thinking about friends getting married these last couple years, how they couldn’t wait to see more photos, another batch, one more angle. The one with Aunt Jenny next to the limo. Their bouquet as golden hour hits.

And in this conversation it hit me… I have exactly 39 pictures of my son.

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This time of year, everyone talks about gratitude like it’s a caption. A list to read through. A highlight reel. But gratitude, when you’ve lost something, or someone, becomes something else entirely. It becomes a deep, aching awareness of what’s temporary.

Think about your favorite person. Their laugh. The way they hug you. The exact color of their eyes. Their coffee order. The perfume they wear that clings to your sweater after a hug.

Maybe your favorite “person” is your dog. The wet kisses. The whale eyes when they want a treat. The tail wags when you walk through the door. I have over 5,700 photos of my dog, and one day that number will stop too. But until then, I’m memorizing every new white hair on his face, and enjoying the kisses and treats.

There’s going to be a time when those are the things you ache for. The things that pictures just can’t capture, but can remind you of.

In general, I write for myself, but most of my words end up resonating with the grievers — the people who know this feeling intimately. But I write also for the people who don’t understand. And sometimes I wonder: are they the lucky ones, or are we?

I’m learning that there’s this delicate balance between being present and documenting every aspect of life. You might take pictures constantly — every dinner, every trip, every laugh. But when will you be present enough to take in the details of that photo later?

I’m guilty of it. I have dozens of blurry fireworks pictures I’ve never once looked at after taking them… but I don’t always remember who was next to me, what perfume they had on, what we talked about.

Lately I’ve been trying something different… taking pictures just as often, but fewer of them. Capturing the movement, the moment, and then letting myself return to living it.

I wish I had more pictures of Teddy. I wish I had asked for videos — close-ups, full-body, from every angle. I wish I had a thousand frames of him in my phone. But in those precious hours, I didn’t want to be behind a screen. It didn’t even cross my mind.

I wanted to be with him. Skin to skin. Primal. Maternal. I wanted my body — my soul — to experience every second I was given. And still, the regret is there.

The holidays are complicated. They always were my favorite, and they still are in some ways. But it’s hard to watch the “thankful” posts — the coordinated outfits, the perfect lighting, the curated dining room table.

Gratitude looks easy when you have what you need.

What if gratitude also looked like the quiet, in-between things? The diaper you change. The milk you warm. The hair you brush. The towel you wrap around a small body, fresh from the bath. The pediatrician forms with their name written at the top.
The laundry. The crumbs.

I don’t necessarily ache for motherhood in some broad, abstract way. It’s more like when something reminds you of a friend and your instinct is to call them — not just anyone, but that one person who fits that moment. That’s what this is like.

I ache for those ordinary moments with that one baby boy who was mine. The one I grew and held. The one whose name should be on cereal-stained field-trip forms and pediatrician paperwork, not the kinds of forms his name is actually on.

So if you’re posting what you’re thankful for this week, that’s beautiful. Truly. But maybe also take a moment to notice the things you’d miss if they disappeared. If the number of photos stopped growing. The things so seemingly ordinary they blend into the background. The ones you don’t photograph, or maybe even can’t, because they aren’t able to be memorialized.

And if you’re lucky enough that your number of photos keeps going up… soak it in. Be in the frame. Be in the moment. Sit in it. Notice everything. The smell. The sound. The temperature of the room.

Because no matter how few photos I have of Teddy, I can still tell you what every second with him felt like. And I tell myself, that’s all that matters.

Xoxo,
Teddy’s Mom