June 1, 2018

This is part of an ongoing series called: The Anatomy of a Photograph where I share the moment behind the image.  Start here if you’re new, or curious. 

“It goes by quick,” they said. But I was too tired to listen, too stuck in the drudges of parenthood to pay attention. And now I’m scrambling to hold on. I’m begging for time to slow just enough to let me catch up to this place of right now so I can figure out how I got here. I feel like I’m constantly searching for the word that describes the feeling of losing something you still have, but at the same time learning to master the grace of (gently) letting go.
I guess I forgot to remember that our babies will actually grow up.

She doesn’t typically like it when I take her picture.  None of my kids do.  I don’t know when it happened or why,  really.  I just know how difficult it is to document them these days.  But on this particular day, she sat close to me while digging through the piles of tiny pebbles, searching for remnants of seaglass.  I watched her with caution, knowing if  she caught me she’d turn her head away- or worse- get up and walk away.  But I wanted to remember this moment, this time, this place, with this girl.  I worked quickly to adjust the settings on my camera and without even raising it up to my eye, I pointed the lens towards her and pressed the shutter.