Perspective, More

Last weekend, Lily learned how to take pictures using my new iphone, which I can barely operate myself. I was busy and let her wander around with it out in Connecticut for awhile, and I never looked at the pictures she'd taken. Tonight, I happened to notice there were suddenly 96 photos, when there'd been 6 before, and I decided I'd delete the ones she'd taken, which I assumed would be mostly random slices from her line of vision.

And, in fact, most of the pictures she'd taken did turn out to be slices from her line of vision. But they weren't random. The first two were just darkness, and I hit the little trash can twice in a row. The next picture was of Annika's crib, taken from down low, so low that Lily must have been crouched down when she snapped it. And then: a series of crib photos, from every angle, including one of the inside, for which she must have leaned over the edge.

A picture of Annika being changed on the changing table was next. I was changing her; I recognized my sleeve. But I don't remember the picture being shot. Changing Annika is something I do automatically. It would never in a million years have occurred to me to record it this way. But changing Annika has always been a huge deal to Lily. It was the one thing that made having a new baby concrete for her from the very beginning. In the weeks before Annika was born, Lily changed hundreds of doll diapers. Now, she stands on the bottom rung of the table and hands me supplies.

Another series followed: Annika, at the bookshelf, choosing, flipping through, then discarding a book. I would also never have taken these pictures. They are blurry, slapdash, action shots. They also capture a few moments of Annika's life at a particular point in time about as well or better than any photos I have taken of her, in that they are so mundane and sequential. Several shots of the leaves covering the backyard. These made me feel a little guilty. Lily has been talking about making a "huge leaf pile" and jumping in it for weeks, longer. A backyard covered with leaves is her father's irritation, something not on my radar screen. For her, it is a scene of possibility and desire.

And me. Seated at my laptop in a blue turtleneck sweater that was my mother's nearly fifty years ago, my back hunched over in a way that makes me fearful for my bones. Seen from below I look serious, focused, not particularly inviting. I didn't know she had taken the picture. I will think of it next time I am working and she tugs on my arm.

I did delete some of Lily's photos from this afternoon shoot. There were a number of gray or black screens, and floorboards, and lots of pictures of doors leading into rooms, which I noted but didn't feel obligated to preserve. But I kept some of them, too. They capture ordinary moments I'd like to be able to remember as images, not just words. Viewing them, I can almost grasp the world through the eyes of my girls.