The Wednesday Pop - vol. 8 . . . it's about a bench

It's good to be back with The Wednesday Pop!

I want to tell you about a bench . . . not just any bench, but a bench that sits outside of a house in Atlanta.  It's at a bus stop, actually.  It's a bus stop bench, and it gets used over and over again each day.

The folks who sit on that bench, as they wait for the bus before their long days or after them, have no idea why the bench is there.  They just know that it provides a respite in a sometimes cold world and that it is there for the sitting.

I love the story of the bench.  It tells a grand story of why my Dad is so special.

Before I tell you all about the bench, you must know that I am blessed with an amazing father-in-law, too.  No one is more fortunate than me in the in law department.   My father-in-law, Grandaddy, is (among many other things) a very talented woodworker.  Some time I'll tell you about the fun we have in his barn and about some of the magic he has created with wood.  He's not just genius at wood-working, but he's also generous.  Fine crafted wood pieces, made by him, are all over the place; gifts of him to many family members and friends and friends of friends.  He has made many folks happy with his sweet gifts.

My family is no exception.  They have many times been the recipients of Grandaddy's wooden treasures, and his handiwork graces their porches and backyards.

A few years ago, my Dad (Pop) made a request.  He isn't quick to ask for things, so I took notice.  He asked Grandaddy if he would build a bench that he could put in front of his house at the bus stop.  Of course, Grandaddy obliged and the dark brown bench was constructed.  My interest was piqued.

Dad got the bench and made plans to secure it with cement on the other side of the sidewalk in front of his house.  (I must admit that one of the parts of this story I like best is that he didn't ask if it was okay - so uncharacteristic of him!)  He marched to the street side, armed with his new bench and a bag of Quickcrete and set about attaching the sidewalk and the bench to each other for eternity.  Done.

A zillion souls pass that bench every day, and I imagine that they never wonder about the bench.  Many people sit on the bench each day.  They might be walking along and perch there for a short rest or they might be anxiously waiting for a ride to the next part of their day.  Either way, the bench is part of their day.  The bench is there to help.  The bench is always there, always waiting quietly to hold them up when the way gets hard.

When I see the bench, I marvel at what a perfect symbol it is of my Dad.  It illustrates how he works.  He saw a need.  He figured out a way he could help.  He made it work.  He made sure that the help would be there, always, whenever someone (anyone) needed it.  He quietly went about making a difference without anyone knowing it was done.  That's how he works.

The bench is there, as I write this.  I wonder who sits upon it now.  I wonder what their day is like or what they are worried about or if they have smiled much today.  I don't know any of that.

I do know that the gift of that bench is constant and that it represents the love of two quiet men, who silently go about making their world a better place.

The Wednesday Pop - vol. 7 . . . It's Hammock Time

My Dad is a smart man.  I've told you that before.  He has a lot of things figured out, and it may surprise you that he is also the world's great rester.  Yes, rester.  He has an unbelievable talent with rest.

He is able to take a short nap in almost any place you could imagine!  He naps on the couch in his office.  He can nap on the ground during a picnic.  He once found a room away from the action and napped while we spent the day at my kids' school!  He's a champion rester!

He slips away from a family gathering, finds a bed, has a rest and gets involved in the conversation again, faster than you would believe.  While the rest of the folks sit around complaining about all that needs to be done or yawning lazily as the conversation lags, he takes a nap!  Oddly enough, when he arises, he's whistling a happy tune and running circles around the rest of us!

I love a good hammock - I assume everyone does - but no one has the relationship with the hammock that my father does.  He is one with any hammock he has ever met!  So, here is where I relate my unbelievable trip to Nicaragua to my Dad's love for resting . . .

In Nicaragua, there are hammocks everywhere!  Unlike our backyard hammocks, swaying alone in the breeze, these hammocks are used and used all of the time!

Are the folks in Nicaragua lazy?  Are they trying to dream away their work?  Do they not have enough to do?

Nope, that's not it.  They have plenty to do, just like my Dad.  Funny thing, though . . . they've figured out that more gets done when one is rested.  They've also figured out that a body and a mind needs rest and that sometimes just dreamily watching the waves or praying or meditating right in the middle of a day is a very good thing.

Once on my trip, I found myself in a hammock.  (Well, actually more than once I found myself in a hammock, but that's not the point here.)  I was talking with another friend on the trip, and we were discussing how odd it was to 'just rest' right in the middle of the day.  I began to think about Pop, my Dad, and something very important dawned on me . . . 

He might rest more than anyone I know, but he also gets more done than anyone I know.  What's up with that?  Apparently, my Dad and some friends in a far away land have discovered something that the rest of us busy people don't yet understand.  

It makes sense to rest in the middle of the day when a body and a mind get tired or when the sun beats down so heavily that simple movements are difficult.

Folks who rest more, do more.  It's that easy.  So, why don't I act on that?  Why don't you?  Why do we feel like we have to act busy all of the time?  Who's watching?  Why do we care?

Seems to me, I just visited with folks who understand far more than most of us.  They have cool, colorful hammocks at their houses, and they use them.

Sometimes they take to a hammock when they are tired from the morning's work.  Sometimes they get in side by side hammocks and have lazy visits, talking about whatever arises.  And sometimes, they just take a few minutes or a few hours and get away from their real world to spend a while with God or with themselves.  Sometimes they just rest.

I'm more than impressed by this talent.  I want to put into action what my Dad and my friends in Nicargaua already know.  

Resting is a good thing.  

A very good thing.  

I think we should start a trend.  What do you think?

The Wednesday Pop - Vol. 6 . . . a thank you I wouldn't have thought I'd send!

So, I've been devoting Wednesdays to my Dad, the cool Don Murphy.  I decided it was a good idea, as I have lots to tell and learn from him about parenting.

He might be surprised by this one.  You might be, too.  Today, I have a specific thank you.

Back in the long ago late seventies and early eighties, people didn't give a lot of thought to seat belts.  Some cars didn't even have them - weird, huh?  Well, I think most cars did, but they were stuffed way down under the seat and nobody could ever find them.  And the belts didn't come from behind, over your shoulder.  They came from the depths and ickiness of the between the seat area.  Once you located the belt for your seat, it was most definitely either sized for Flat Stanley or the fat lady at the circus. They didn't work with the spring back system of today - once you found one, it might prove to be ten feet of royal blue silky belt.  It was a real pain.  Anybody remember that?

Oh, what we went through, back in the day.

But, that's not really what this post is about.  That's not the thank you.  My appreciation goes to my Dad for being a bit on the 'weird' side and forcing us to wear seat belts way before everybody else did.  It was a pain; it really was.  Though we knew he forced the issue because he loved us so very much, we were often frustrated by that extra ten seconds of effort needed to be safe.  Dad stayed the course.  I'm thankful.  He had us put on the seat belts, no matter what car we were in.  He had our friends put on seat belts when they rode with us.

The part that amazes me now - now that I'm a parent - is how hard that must have been.  I can see now that listening to us whine about the pesky seat belts must have been a pain.  It would have been so much easier to do what most everyone else was doing and just forget about the safety issue that was becoming clearer and clearer.  It would have been easier - much easier.

But that's not my Dad.  That's not how he does it, and I'm thankful.  Writing this has all sorts of things running through my brain about parenting today.  I'm wondering about the things I need to be brave about;  the yays and nays I need to concentrate on, even when it's really, really hard.

I have a great example, and I can remember it every time I put on my seat belt.  Each time I reach over and do what I have to do, I can draw on the strength I learned from my Dad and hope for the courage to be so bold myself.

Thanks, Dad.

The Wednesday Pop - Vol. 3 . . . these things I KNOW.

I'm not sure of much.  The events of last Friday, bunched up with all of the other confusing events in this complicated world, have left me sad and confused and wondering about what I KNOW.  I've wanted to be able to give my children some sense of calm, as we discuss the good things we know about God, this world and the people inhabiting it.  I've been grasping at the people and thoughts and things that I know are good.  I've found myself whispering prayers that I know, have known for a long time, and wanting to laugh and visit with the ones who create a sense of comfort in me.  

As sad as things feel right now, I'm noticing that working to remember what's good, decent, interesting, meaningful and loving brings us some much needed comfort.  Dad has always been one who does that for me, so today's essay jumped in front of me.  As I began to put these words in place, it seemed almost obvious that what I need (what I'd like to write about) is what I know.  And I may not know much about many things, but I know A LOT about this guy named Pop.

So here, my friends, are some things I KNOW.  Just thinking about them is making me smile, and smiling is bringing me some comfort.


I KNOW that as long as I live on this earth, I will not have a warm sweater or jacket in a cold restaurant if my father is with me.  I've come to terms with this.  I know it to be true.  He spent the first half of my life, urging me to 'bring along a jacket in case it gets cold' and for reasons I can't explain, I know that he will continue to catch me without said warmth.

I KNOW that there is such a thing as a happy medium (and I KNOW that I don't find it often).  I know because of Pop.   My Dad has a hold on moderation unlike anyone I've ever known.  He get's it!  I'm amazed by his understanding of the happy medium, keeping things in perspective and moderation!  I want his ability to find this perch between too much and not enough.  For my 48 years, though, I've just watched in amazement.  

He can take a nap that is just the right length.  It makes him feel better!  He doesn't stay asleep for four hours, waking up in misery, or rest nervously, only to get agitated.  He can eat a sinful dessert, just enjoying enough to get the taste and not so much he feels like he needs to be rolled away with the rest of us.  He can read a great book, but put it down when it's time to get some sleep.  What's that like?  I can't imagine, but I KNOW it's possible, as I've watched it in action all of my life.  

I KNOW that at any point, in any place, during any event, with any circumstances, my father would find me and meet me where I am.  I've always known it.  Pretty wonderful, huh?  I write this as a serious point, and I'm a different person for knowing this down in my soul, but we have laughed many times about the ways that Dad can find us in any situation.

There are 92,746 seats in Sanford Stadium in Athens, Georgia.  It's a big place.  Please believe me when I tell you that once, at a UGA game, my father sat on one side of that giant arena and found me on the other side, in the middle of 92 other thousands of people!  He had no idea where I was, but was sure I was at the game, and he found me!  He's like that.  He is like a mother bear in that way.  He know's where his kids are, physically and emotionally, and he gets there when we need him.



I KNOW that truly listening and hearing people is a gift.  I've been heard, and I know this is true.  My Dad hears the people around him.  He listens and he hears us.  I can think of no greater gift, and I will forever try to be the listener he is.  Most of us are busy.  Life is complicated.  We hear too much chatter; too much distraction.  It's hard to really listen and difficult to really hear the ones we love.  It's hard to know people.

My Dad knows people, and all of my life, I have watched the gift that his listening has brought to the people in his life.  He is who I watch to learn how to listen . . . how to hear . . . and how to really know folks.  I'm working on it, and probably will be for a long time to come, but I've got the best teacher ever.  Listening is a gift and I know that my Dad gives it freely wherever he goes.  This I know.

The world is crazy.  Things are hard to understand.  I don't know a lot.

These are some things I know, though, to be sure.  It makes me feel better to think about them.

What do you know?

The Wednesday Pop - Vol. 2 We'll start at the Fox . . .

Don't think I haven't driven my brain crazy trying to decide where to start with The Wednesday Pop.  I have.  There is much to tell, as I told you last week in The Wednesday Pop - Vol. 1 .  Where to begin, I pondered a million times since last week.  A couple of nights ago, though, I found my answer on the tv, of all places.  

We found a show on PBS devoted to the the Fox Theatre in Atlanta.  It was wonderful; part history, part legends, part documentary.  I enjoyed it, and it served as a trip down memory lane through so many awesome adventures in my childhood.  About twenty minutes into the show, I realized I would start my Pop stories at the Fox.  It makes good sense.  

I'll explain.  My Dad (often known as Pop, his grandfather name) is grand with grand celebrations.  (I realize I just used the same word twice - it was intentional.)  He can magically turn the ordinary into the extraordinary, the mundane into something special, the occasion into an event.  And so many times, he did that while he introduced my sister and I to a great, big, interesting world - often at a performance.  Many times, as you might imagine, the Fox came into play.  If you don't live in the Atlanta area, please click on the link above and investigate this fine theatre.  If you live near here, and you've never been there - you must remedy that immediately.  That is your homework.  Period.

As a child, I had no idea that every kid I knew didn't make frequent trips to the Fox.  I assumed that everyone went to see Rudolph Nureyev and Mikhail Baryshnikov, whether or not they were into ballet.  I thought all kids saw The Royal Ballet of Everyplace, and for a while, I took it for granted.  When the Fox was in danger of being demolished, I figured all children were kept abreast of all that was happening and that most other kids had their own "Save the Fox" t-shirt, like I did.  

Didn't most families go to see Chinese Acrobats and the Atlanta Symphony?  Surely other kids knew the story about the Russian ballet couple who had been held captive in one room when they tried to defect, but practiced their ballet in the small space they had.  Surely others, like me, got to see them at the Fox, on their first tour in America.  Surely other parents told their children about this couple's story, shared the tales of their determination and cried alongside their daughters when the couple took to the stage.  Surely, they did.

I assumed most folks saw the first running of A Chorus Line and Phantom of the Opera.  I figured that most folks took their kids to see Gospel singers bring down the house on a regular basis.  (As a side note . . . if you are a singer who is female, a bit past middle-age, African American and a tad on the puffy side, my father will find you and hear you sing.)  I just knew that other kids heard boys' choirs from everywhere, rarely missed the Alvin Ailey Dancers and sometimes sat through plays and performances whose names they could barely pronounce.  I thought that was the way everybody did it.  

Eventually, I got a clearer picture.  I noticed that other kids my age didn't talk about their experiences at the Fox, or any one of Atlanta's other performance venues.  I began to see that my parents were different, that we did things that lots of other folks weren't doing.  And though I'll never know all that went into planning these events and pulling them off without the finances to provide for such, I did start to see that my Dad was different.  My eyes opened up a bit more, and I realized that he was consistently affording Jodi and me chances to see tiny glimpses of all that awaited us on this interesting place called Earth.  

When we were learning about Martin Luther King, Jr. at school, our family went to his church for a service and saw his home and roamed around his neighborhood.  When we reveled in the successes of the U.S. figure skaters, we were there at the Omni to see them in person.  When Jodi started taking gymnastics, we started seeing the famous gymnasts live.  I took note . . . my parents weren't steering us in the direction of their own lives, exactly, they were providing for us a summary of the many things the world has to offer.  We heard authors, listened to choirs, saw circuses, went to concerts, ballets, folk performances, plays and comedies.  We went to football games and swim meets and saw the visiting tours of anyone and anything that came through Athens, Ga.

I don't list these things to brag.  I list them now, as a thankful daughter and a learning parent.  I marvel at the experiences that my folks gave me on a limited budget and on the many ways that they put aside their particular interests to introduce us to the gifts of the world.  It's amazing to me, still.

In March, I wrote about the many ways that my mother touched this world, but I write this to begin to tell you the myriad ways that my Dad is changing this place.

Luckily, I wasn't grown when I began to notice all that he did to stretch our minds, our experiences or views of the world.   Thankfully, I realized at least some of what he did while I was still young and under his full time tutelage.  I remember when I first wondered about 'where Dad came from.'  How did a man who grew up poor in Griffin and Forest Park, Georgia learn about all of this?  How did he know that all of these things went on in the world, when the adventures weren't part of his daily life?  

He grew up with two amazing and loving parents, who adored their three sons.  They were poor; and though they brought themselves out of poverty and achieved so much, the majority of my Dad's childhood was filled with hardships.  It was filled with love, too.  And humor, and appreciation and church and singing and laughing and family.  I guess it was filled with enough of all of that good stuff, that he was instilled with a deep appreciation for the individual.  He learned about the many parts that make up a whole person.  I guess he came to know, maybe earlier than most, how important it was to know folks' stories.  I am thankful that he continues to pass that down.

I remember once trying to come up with a way to ask Dad how he came to know about the great, big, wide, interesting world.  I was frustrated, thinking I might not have the words to explain exactly what I was asking.  He got it, though, and he told me straight out.  I hope I remember his words correctly.  . .

He said everything opened up for him on a school field trip.  He said he remembers being brought on a bus from Forest Park to Atlanta to Symphony Hall with his classmates.  He remembers looking around.  He remembers noticing the building's architecture, the careful ways the space was created to carry sound and he remembers seeing the people of all sorts who were there to hear the musicians.  He recalls marveling at the talent of all of the orchestra members and the conductor and the people in the audience who seemed to understand it all.  He explained that he made a choice, right there - he decided that he would know that world, those things.  He decided that he would learn what they knew and visit that building again.  He would check out this big, wide world.

And he is doing just that, and taking the rest of us along on the journey.  Thanks be to God, that he is my Dad, that he dreamt up all that he did and that he introduced me to all that I saw.  I KNOW NOW that what I had wasn't the norm.  I know now that I was part of something extraordinary.  Today, I marvel at how he pulled it off.  I wonder how he made it happen, where he got the energy, came up with the money, had the tenacity to keep it going.  How could one person introduce that many different things to two little kids from Georgia?

I just hope I remember to take advantage of the 'Save the Fox' t-shirt moments with my own kids.  I hope I remember to stay awake enough to see all that happens in this bright, beautiful world and share it with them.

I am learning from the master, maestro, conductor, tour guide, choreographer, artistic director, coach, and mentor that is my Dad.   I am learning from the best.

The Wednesday Pop - Vol. I

Seventy four years ago today the world changed.  It really did.  You may not know the significance, so I'll explain.  When I first explain, you may think I'm exaggerating, but I plan to spend the next year explaining how the world changed for the better for all of us.

On this day in December in 1938, a little baby was born at home to the beautiful young Lorena Butler Murphy.  He was named Donald Clarence Murphy.  He would do great things, but they didn't know that then.  They just knew he was a blessing and he was precious and he was healthy.

Last spring when I wrote about my amazing mother, I made a promise (mostly to myself) that I would write about my father and I would do it while he was here to read it.  I intend to make good on that promise.

I've been thinking for a while about how I'd like to tell you about little Donnie who grew up to be Donald C. Murphy, Ph.D.  I've been wondering about the best format, the clearest way to tell you about him.  I think I've got my plan.

I have a lot to say, to write and to remember about this man.  It's hard to sum him up without some time.  I intend to give it just that.  I've decided that I'll spread out my memories and stories about him over this next year, on the blog, in a segment called The Wednesday Pop - Wednesdays because that's the day and Pop because it's his grandfather name and because it sounds really cool.

Prepare to be moved.  Prepare to learn and to listen and to join me as I recount just some of why I am so fortunate.  I cannot imagine how the stars aligned and Jodi and I got picked to be Dad's daughters, but I thank God every single day.  It has been a journey that continues now.  The rest of you seem to be making it, but I'm not sure how you're doing without a Dad like mine.

I have many things to tell you, so it will  take some time.  I'll tell you things he taught me about people, God, the world and feelings.  I'll tell you about my memories of growing up with a Dad like Dad.  I'll tell you about quiet times and times full of laughter.  I'll tell you touching things that you won't believe. As a parent, sometimes I look back on my father during my childhood and use it as a guidebook and other times I look back and just feel amazed.  My childhood wasn't perfect.  I won't say that.  No one's is, and that would be a dishonest waste of time.  My childhood was real and wonderful and hard and exciting and frustrating and scary and loving, just like most.  But I went through it with someone I want you to know better and I can't wait to tell the stories.

I hope you'll enjoy them with me.  I hope you'll think back on your own memories, remember the dear ones who make your journey worthwhile.  I'll love this romp through the past and this closer look at the present.  I hope you will, too.

I love you, Dad.

How do summer camp and laundry go together? I'll explain . . .

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Lately I keep remembering a story from long ago.  I guess people’s tales from summer camp adventures is part of it.  I think my stage of parenting has me remembering, too.  Tim and I are constantly trying to ‘refigure’ what we are doing right and what needs amending.  I’m often wondering about ways that I could be more effective as a parent, about ways that I can be better at helping my kids take on something that will serve them well for the rest of their lives.  

I had awesome parents.  They were smart and interesting and fun.  They, too, were consistently wondering about ways to aide my sister and I in growing into the amazing individuals we have become.  (Smile).   

My mother, the teacher, and my father, the marriage and family therapist, thought hard about the right things to do.  Most of them worked out swimmingly.  Every now and then, though, there was a bit of a backfire.

This story is too good.  It’s too good not to be told:

At one point (just fine for my younger sister and twenty years too early for me) my parents decided that it would be beneficial for the two of us to take on more responsibility.  It was time for us to do more around the house; time to learn a life skill.  

Somewhere in late elementary school or early middle school, we were introduced to the lovely steps of laundering clothes.  Jodi and I went through a short training, our folks practiced with us, and then we were to do our own laundry.  Sounds do-able, huh?

It worked perfectly for Jodi, my younger sister by eighteen months.  Her clothes were done on a regular schedule (even though she had to use a little stool to reach all of the way into the washer).  She neatly kept a ‘white’ pile and a pile of ‘colored’ clothes.  She swiftly swooped in the second her wash cycle was finished to lovingly transfer her clothes to the dryer.  You must know, she folded them right from the dryer, into perfect, store-quality stacks.  It was a beautiful thing.  

My laundering system was not lovely.  There was no system.  I probably still owe her money from the times I tried to purchase her services as a washer woman.  When I was left to my own devices, however, it was not a pretty sight.  I waited until I was out of every bit of clothing that I could wear and I loaded my arms to their capacity to head to the laundry room.  Once there, I crammed the entire mass into the washer, with no concern whatsoever to the color or material.  I remember a few times that I had to be called to the laundry room because the washer couldn’t actually wash clothes when they were piled too tightly to allow the spinner to rotate.  Ughh . . . details.

Many of my favorite clothes quickly turned pink and the rest became Barbie clothes.  Apparently, I had missed the part of discussion about cottons, hot water, etc.  Things are not much better now, but I’ve managed to keep most of my family’s wardrobe the original size and color.

Jodi, ohhhh Jodi, she was the laundress extraordinaire.  She was meant for the task and she did it well.  

The fun part of the story came when she went away to summer camp a few months after our new routine.  She went to a camp near our home, and she was to stay two weeks.  Midway during the camp, families were allowed to come to camp for a visit.  

The parents of children who lived nearby would gather the soiled laundry from the first week, wash it quickly and then deliver it back to ready their children for the second week.  My parents and I could not wait to get to the camp and see Jodi on Parent’s Day.  We were excited to see her cabin, meet her new friends and hear about all of her adventures.  

I remember it well.  We arrived at the camp, families and campers strewn out all around, in the cabins and out.  It was a happy day.  We located Jodi’s cabin and met her counselors.  We talked about where we should go to dinner, and then my Mom asked Jodi to grab her laundry.  (Here’s where the plan goes awry.)

Jodi looked up proudly, smiled and stated, “Oh, my friend’s Mom took it home to wash it for me.”  

“What?”, my mother asked.  “Why?”

“Well, she was so sweet . . . I explained to her that you didn’t do my laundry, and she felt sorry for me.  She said she’d do it.”

Suffice it to say that we didn’t spend too much time at the camp that day.  We didn’t hang around to meet the nice laundry lady, and Mom just hoped and prayed the woman never learned her name.  

All of this remembering has me wondering which of my plans will come back to haunt me!

Say "Cheese" and say it often

Photographs ARE more than paper - I know you all know that. And, I know that many of you have already read the post that I am sharing today. It has been all around the internet over the last few days. It is sad, very sad; and it is hard to read. It is hard to think about. I want you to read it, though. I don't want you to read it just to be sad, and I don't want you to read it as some sleazy way to promote what I do. I am a photographer because I love it and because I know that helping to preserve pieces of our lives is important. My clients understand that, and so they are willing to invest in the process. Sometimes it is expensive and always it is worth it.

I want you to read this blog post from another photographer because I think it has more of a message than making the investment in photography. I think this is a call to all of us parents (often Moms) that it is IMPERATIVE that we have photographs of us - when our children are older, they will want to see what WE looked like, what WE did with them, when WE looked happy or tired or excited or sad or content, what WE shared with them. As parents, we work hard to ensure that we have photos of our children at every age, in every phase, at every special event, etc. How often, though, do we think of a zillion reasons why WE shouldn't be in the photos? My answer to that question is . . . OFTEN!

Do we fear that our children will grow into adults who look back at the pictures of us and see tired or overweight or without make-up or not dressed correctly? Are we afraid we won't measure up? Will we not look as good as the other mothers and fathers? Will our children wish that we had been dressed more fashionably? That's preposterous - you and I both know that.

Our children will see the one thing they are looking for - their Mama or Daddy or Dad or Mom or Pop or whatever you are called. They will see you and remember how we usually looked on those regular weekdays when they came in from playing. They will remember what made us laugh and when we got a serious look. They will remember just the way they sat in our laps or just how we threw them in the air or that we always looked at them in 'just that way.' They will look at those photos, snapshots or formal, and they will tell their children what it was like to be the child of us. I doubt they will notice the make-up or lack of it, the outfit we were wearing, or the amount of weight we needed to loose. They won't be looking for that. They will be looking for pieces of their past; pieces of the way things used to be. They will hold on to our photos in the same way we hold on to theirs.

As I look at the above photo I remember a grand good time. I also see a terribly fuzzy photo, taken with a cell phone, of a crazy tired woman with a funny looking paper thing on her head. I doubt that's what Emma and Harry will see when they look at the photo in years to come. I believe they will see a Mama who loves them, who laughed with them and tried to make that particular night fun. I believe they'll remember how they were the waiters and that they served the food to everyone on the porch and that they helped me use paper towels to make a chef's hat. I believe they'll remember.

I write this today and share this post for you AND for me. I suspect that you are like me. I spend most of the time behind the camera; and even with much prodding from loved ones, I rarely step out and get in front of the camera. That's not okay. I might not love seeing myself in pictures, but my children will; and seeing the photographs that we take today will be the tangible pieces they have of times gone by. I cherish the photos of my children as babies and toddling to walk and making a mess when they learned to eat - they will cherish the photos of their Daddy and I laughing and hugging and smiling and being surprised. I owe that to them. I do.

Please read:

http://fototails.wordpress.com/2012/01/02/a-letter-on-my-doorstep-portraits-are-more-than-paper/