Living the memories

& letting that be enough

Does anyone remember those Kodak waterproof cameras? The disposable ones that your mom dropped off at CVS and you waited an absolute eternity to get the photos back? And when you did finally get those pictures of you and your friend making peace signs underwater in your Lands’ End bathing suits, they were super blurry but you didn’t care because they were your Very Own Memories?

Those cameras were a highlight of my childhood summers. And I never would have verbalized or even thought this as a kid, but I don’t think it was because of the photos themselves. I think most of the joy came from the experience of having fun at the pool, and the anticipation of waiting to see how my pictures would develop. 

My older boys have just started asking, “Can I see it?!” the second I snap a photo of them. Honestly, it’s still wild to me that we’re able to immediately see pictures of ourselves. Almost like we can always look into a mirror with ideal lighting and backdrops. Is it strange that my 3- and 4-year-olds have this ability? Maybe I’m just an old-fashioned millennial mom, but I’m starting to think yes.

As my children grow up, I feel our moments together slipping through my fingers faster and faster. I want to freeze their childhood in a time capsule to revisit whenever I want, and I know it doesn’t work like that, but it seems like if I take enough photos and record enough memories then maybe it could? 

Here’s the thing, though. I don’t want my babies growing up with an iPhone forever in between us (which, of course, it was when I took the photos in this post). I don’t want my kids feeling like they need to paste on a smile or perform every time I whip out my phone to take a picture. I don’t want capturing memories to take me out of actually experiencing them. 

In addition to all the memories on my camera roll, I also have a Google Doc where I write down things the boys do or say. It’s been severely neglected since having Alden, and my latest entry was two months ago when Kyeler surveyed our thermostat and announced loudly, “Sixty degrees! Time for dinner!” (For the record, it was neither.)

Last week I walked into the boys’ room and saw CJ standing in front of the full-length mirror in a Spiderman mask, stating confidently to nobody but himself, “I. Am. Miles Morales.” I meant to write it down, because how cute is that? But then the baby needed feeding and dinner needed making and baths needed taking and I am only just now remembering I wanted to document that tiny part of our day to remember forever.

I guess my point here is that I can never fully and completely capture and preserve memories the way I would like to. Recently I came across this quote from Toni Morrison and I felt a wave of peace wash over me as soon as I read it. She writes: 

“At some point in life the world's beauty becomes enough. You don't need to photograph, paint or even remember it. It is enough. No record of it needs to be kept and you don't need someone to share it with or tell it to. When that happens — that letting go — you let go because you can.”

One day I know these memories of my boys’ childhood will fade and blur, just like those underwater pictures I took in our neighborhood pool as a kid. But maybe that’s ok. Maybe I need to let go of the impossible task of recording and remembering every little thing. 

After all, I am living these moments of beauty. Noticing them. Experiencing them. 

It is enough.