It’s not often that I catch a picture of all of my babies smiling these big, genuine smiles. I am not a photographer. The lighting is always wrong and their are weird blurry spots where there should be a child. The background is full of unflattering things no one wants to see, like dirty dishes, filled to the brim trashcans or toys randomly thrown about the yard.
I have a couple of friends who take pictures of my kids because we run in the same circles and I look at their pictures and think “that is the most beautiful child in the world” (not that I’m biased). You’ve seen some of them, I post them on here and tag them on Facebook.
I always do feel a little proud that somehow my husband and I managed to give birth to these little beauties. Well, I feel proud briefly until I have to break up a screaming fist fight before someone ends up bloody. Then, I realize that pictures only tell so much.
I want to frame the pictures from the professionals. They are classy and elegant.
This picture, the one where all of my children have piled into a cardboard box, is the one I want to memorize.
The one I want to stare at and have the image burned into my brain.
I want to be able to smell the smell of summer and dirt. I want to hear the sound of giggling and laughing and jostling one another. I want to see the sight of Foster’s sense of humor, Katie’s desire to please, Theodore’s sweet spirit, Parker’s adoring look at Daddy and Jonah doing his best to imitate his big brother.
Only my pictures, the ones I took, the moments I felt compelled to pick up my camera and “capture” are the ones that can give me all of that. Imperfect as they may be.
All the Little Grubbs 