Last month, as I searched for a photograph that wasn’t my outdated head shot, I was reminded yet again that I don’t exist.
All the pictures in our family albums prove my disappearance.
According to these pictures, our family seems to have had some really wonderful times. At the beach, in New York, and at friends’ houses. But alas, this poor family was missing a Mommy. Or she was invisible. Because I remember being there, there’s just no proof.
I am the one thinking enough of the moment to take the pictures, mostly. Occasionally my son wants to commandeer the camera and can come up with some pretty good ones. But he’s eight and he makes me nervous with the equipment. My husband sometimes volunteers to do the picture-taking but hates to download them. So I may exist in an alternate Android phone universe.
I finally daringly used the technology available and took two selfies with the kids. One of which can be seen on the About Me page.
My timidity in doing so was a fear of seeming vain. But I guess vanity is preferable to transparency. Even Waldo is there somewhere.
Shalagh, I’ve experienced this same feeling of being invisible, because I’m the one who takes the pictures. For the same reason. Now, I simply hand the camera (our phone now) and tell my husband to take a picture of me. It’s the only way! I totally understand.
I know you know what I mean. But I like that you hand the “camera” over to husband and say take this picture. Because I get the feeling that these children will want these pictures one day. Something validating about the ones with your parent when you were little.