Since the Great Hard Drive Crash of ’07, I’ve become keenly aware of the family pictures we still have left. And the number of pictures we have left is small. But even smaller still is the number of pictures we have of me. Which would be none, actually. Unless you count the few photos I didn’t actually take, but wasn’t really in. Well, I was there in body, but not in face. See, I have a lot of hair. (Thank you, Grammy.) I know this, I accept it, I am even, sometimes, grateful. But it tends to take over my head.
I present to you Exhibit A:
And Exhibit B:
So the other day, when I was doing some baking with the boys, I asked Andrew to try and take a few pictures of me so that my children would believe I was ACTUALLY THERE for their childhood. Now, first off, let me just say this. Wives, do not give your husband the camera and say, “Take a few shots with me in them.” Because this is what I got:
Not that I’m not flattered, but he did sort of MISS THE POINT.
Furthermore, I should not have been surprised when the majority of the cooking pictures had my hair as the main attraction. And rest assured, there are no less than twenty other pictures that I am NOT publishing, out of pity for your little eyeballs.
Yea, I know. Buy a hair clip, LL. But it keeps my ears warm…
Anyway, Andrew did manage a few pictures of actual faces:
Some day, when my children are grown, they will try to recall these fuzzy days of their youth. And my biggest fear is that all they’re going to be able to picture of their mother is my hair. Like Cousin Itt on the Addams Family. I suppose, though, that even if they don’t remember what I looked like, I hope my children remember what we did. And I hope those memories are sweet.
By the way, today when I told Andrew to take a picture of Ellen eating her first popsicle, this is what he got: