Photogenic

My dad tells the same joke whenever anyone says he is photogenic. He replies that he must not be very attractive in actuality, and that the person's surprise at him looking good in a photograph somewhat corroborates this.

I was thinking about my dad's joke a few weeks back when a friend was over at our house looking at a family photo I have framed on our wall. "Meg, you are so photogenic!" she declared. And my dad was right--she seemed surprised I looked good in the picture.

That I'm photogenic is the most common compliment I receive. I can only count on a few fingers the times anyone has told me, in person, that I was beautiful. And that's okay. I may not give good face, but I take a damn fine photo.

A good picture of you can really boost your self esteem. It almost undoes the damage done by catching a glimpse of yourself in the mirror when stepping out of the shower. But these kind of elevating images come few and far between. They can't just be a picture other people declare is good-- a photo taken at a low angle in which you are wearing a tank top on a humid day, that your sister swears is the best picture you've ever taken. But one in which you finally see a captured image of how you always thought you looked.

Given our digital capabilities, smart phones and the world of social media, taking an abundance of pictures is standard. Manipulating them with filters that brighten the skin, or enhance the colors, is easy. And storing them in cheap, readily available memory is encouraging. In the modern world there is no excuse for not constantly documenting your life.

Which is why I've mostly forgiven my parents for the pathetic lack of pictures there are of me growing up. I've seen one Polaroid in which I look to be about three years old and another at my high school graduation. In the middle are a few with my siblings and at camp with my friends. But trying to convince me I was actually raised by my family is challenging for my parents. There's simply not enough evidence.

My child, however, will one day marvel at the vast collection of pictures I have of her. Thousands of pictures. All of her many expressions, outfits, milestones, trips, toys, parties, meals, doctor's visits and play dates. One day she can look back and see how much her parents loved her, how much we captured, witnessed and were excited by every f**king thing she ever did.

And if I took the time to divide the pictures into two categories--the ones her father took and the ones her mother took--she might even be able to discern the different ways in which we raised her. Because nothing shows the differences in parenting style like your time behind the camera.

My husband's approach to photography is far different than my own. I am creative. He is precise. I'm wired. He's patient. I'm performance. He's direction. I'm big-picture. He's detail.

And we both capture fantastic pictures of our daughter.

Jim crouches down beside her and waits. I stand near him biting my nails, tapping my foot, and sighing loudly to encourage him to just snap the picture. To snap a bunch of pictures. I want to be deafened by camera clicks. Instead, he waits. And waits. And though I think I should have heard at least twenty shutter sounds, I hear only one. When I later see that one shot, it's gold.

When I take pictures, I'm not interested in the details. I'm wanting the atmosphere. I roam around my child and snap and snap as she is doing whatever she's doing, mundane or fascinating. She may or may not look up and most often she flashes me a uterus-cramping smile. And later, when I look through all the many, many shots, I can always find one. And it's gold.

As he tells it, Jim's time at film school taught him explicitly how to use cameras of all kinds. But even further, film school taught him the concept of framing and lighting a shot. He's dabbled in freelance work and has a high-end camera. So, if I'm wanting perfect pictures of my child or my family, Jim's the guy. And he gets the shot the first time, every time.

Jim sees photography as a science, with right and wrong ways of doing it. My friends, who are truly talented at it, see it as an art in which passion and talent are key. Not surprisingly, I see it as a form of communication. I'm engaging a subject and capturing their response. And so, in the difficult times and the beautiful moments, photographing my child is another way I'm engaging her. Talking to her. Telling her story.

Sometimes we hire a professional so that we can both be in the frame with our child. We wear clothes I spent time fretting over and huddle together as an outsider captures us from a different perspective. And the opposing parenting styles are just as evident when we are on the other side of the lens. I am brilliant at getting my child to smile; Jim keeps her from getting hurt on the props.

Our obsession with pictures isn't just about our child. It's about documenting trips together, big and small. Snapping pictures of elaborate meals I've concocted, furniture we like, unusual bugs in our garden. Jim and I have an unspoken rule in our life together: live it fully and document it well.

And I can take these pictures of beaches and bugs and the baby, and I can print them large and frame them well and decorate our home with the beautiful moments of our life. Looking at these stops time. Lets me remember the good and the bad for eternity. Pictures capture our existence. Ensure our legacy. How else could you prove your child scored the winning goal? Or that Mariah Carey lost the baby weight?

Pictures. The proof of life.

When I want to feel strong and determined, I pull out pictures of me in a full body cast after my car accident. I look at pictures from our wedding when I want to feel beautiful. Pictures of my honeymoon make me giddy. Pictures of my college roommates make me homesick. Pictures of our newborn in the emergency room make me ache. Pictures of my pug make me laugh. Pictures of my dad make me smile. He's very photogenic.

I can look at the large black and white print of our child and remember how proud I was to capture her first enormous smile. And remember that it took me 37 pictures to get that single one. Immediately after I captured it, she threw up.

Or the picture Jim took of me on our honeymoon on the deserted beach we found that gray, drizzly day. He fussed at length with the settings on my inexpensive point-and-shoot, had me sit on a large piece of driftwood, faced me in the direction of the rain and wind and captured an image in which my joy is most pronounced.

Perhaps the most significant is the picture of the three of us that hangs in our bedroom. Lowery was just a month old and I was struggling through the darkest period of post partum depression. Like a robot, I went to get her out of her crib as she was crying, and I brought her to Jim. When I placed her beside him she was immediately soothed. I remember looking at them thinking that I should love this more. That I should feel my heart swell just looking at my loving husband and my beautiful daughter lying in bed cuddling on a lazy Sunday morning. And yet I felt that somehow that moment, that phase of life, would never pass. Would never improve. Would never be enjoyable.

But something made me go get the camera. Go through the motions of snapping a few pictures of the two of them lying there together. And I began to cheer up slightly as I watched her nestle, snuggle, and even smile slightly, in the crook of her daddy's arm. I became almost happy as I snapped and snapped and snapped the two people in my life that I felt I didn't deserve. As if I was finally stopping to look at them. And this feeling, this first flash of happiness in weeks, made me crawl in bed beside my husband and child. All three of us, in a quiet morning together in bed. Then I held the camera out and above our three heads because I had a brilliant thought:

Take a picture.


It will last longer.

Tantrum

You should have seen it. Fists clenched, back arched, cheeks puffed and crimson, and a scream so loud that people on the other side of the zoo probably assumed the elephants were trumpeting.

My sweet, happy, easy-going child was throwing her first full-on tantrum while my husband and I looked at her in shock. Once we realized everyone at the giraffe exhibit was watching, we tried to act like attentive parents who had the situation under control.

We did not.

We had been foolish enough to think we were at least a year away from this kind of behavior. We handled the situation reasonably well. I think we were patient. And by patient, I mean "parent patient," which is any time you don't murder your child.

Thirty seconds after the tantrum, our child was an absolute delight. Giggling, blowing kisses to rhinos, singing songs and telling us what sounds a monkey makes.

What the hell?

Another tantrum happened two days later. Lowery's tantrums were upsetting me. Overwhelming me. Embarrassing me. Trying to stop them was something I needed in order to make me feel better.

And once I thought about it, I understood that Lowery wasn't throwing a fit to upset, overwhelm or embarrass me. She was throwing a tantrum because she wasn't getting what she wanted. Which was to not be constrained by the car seat. She wasn't satisfied by the situation. She was being selfish. Super, super selfish.

And that is something I can understand.

I had no idea I was selfish until I had a child. But man, it's a trait I now fully recognize, am only somewhat ashamed of, and have no intention of correcting.

Selfishness gets a bad rap. Especially with motherhood. Pregnancy can be all about you, sure. Here, put your feet up. You shouldn't lift that. You should rest. How are you feeling? What are you craving?

But then the baby pops out and you are done.

I get it. I do. The child is helpless, needy, tiny. I know it needs to be about her. Feed her, nurture her, pamper her, love her. Yeah, yeah. But there seems to be an unspoken rule that mothers should be completely selfless. Self-sacrificing. Eat over the sink. Shower while the baby naps. Have a career when the kids are grown. Sleep when you're dead.

And when faced with this unspoken rule, I've thrown my own 15-month-long tantrum. And, like any tantrum, it's marvelously selfish.

In general my selfish tantrums come out in palatable ways. (Please do not try to verify this with my husband; he is unavailable for comment.) I'm not selfish in my marriage or in my friendships. I let people merge ahead of me on the expressway. I hold doors for strangers and I never interrupt. But when it comes to my career, my ambition, and my shopping habits, I'm selfish.

Jim contributes a lot so that I can do what I do professionally. And he never complains. In fact, he encourages me greatly. So if he's unhappy with the dynamic, he has only himself to blame. When he gets home at night, he takes Lowery while I go drink, I mean soak, in the bathtub. On the weekends, he packs her up and takes her for a few hours so I can work. 

My mother and my sister seem to pity Jim. As though supporting a strong woman is not what any man would ever do willingly. I could go on and on to my family about my latest research, or a troublesome student, and they will listen for a while, nodding politely. When I'm done they say things like, "Is Jim okay with you working that late at night?" Or, "Is Jim getting any attention or chance at happiness?" Or "Is Jim okay with you being a horrible, selfish wife?"

They sometimes forget what I, and my uterus, contribute to our marriage. Are they failing to remember that I watch Lowery while Jim goes to work? Would it help to remind them I still pee when I sneeze?

Seems like women can't be self-possessed or else they are a neglectful mother and an emasculating wife.

This is why most women are a little batshit. Because we are in the midst of our own tantrums. We feel the shackles, and they are as tight as Lowery's car seat buckles. Our fists are clenched, our backs are arched. We're trying to scream it out. Shake it off.

So by Lowery's third tantrum, I was ready. Because I had, of course, Googled myself silly, earning an online degree in child psychology. I asked others for advice, other mothers, my own mother, my coworkers, the teachers at day care, the sales clerk at the Gap.

I thought the solution would be more complicated. Perhaps including a child size straitjacket, shock therapy, journal writing and trust exercises. But everyone said mostly the same thing: validate her feelings, remove her from the situation, and ignore the behavior.

So I did that. And I couldn't believe the response. She settled immediately.

This shouldn't surprise me I suppose. How many tantrums have I thrown since Lowery was born? Jim comes home to find an upset wife who isn't getting her way. Not getting enough down time. Not getting enough sleep. Not getting enough reading done or making enough progress on the dissertation. And in thinking back at all my many tantrums I see now that he always validated my feelings. Told me I was normal to feel this way and was absolutely right for being upset. Then he would remove me from the situation. Which was to send me to the mall by myself, or to the tub for a good "soak." And finally, he would ignore my behavior. Which meant that once I calmed down, he pretended my embarrassing actions never even happened.

He had an additional tactic, that no other person suggested I try, which was to slightly adjust how he was handling the situation (like getting home from work earlier, getting up with her on the weekends, bringing home more wine) to reduce my chances of having another tantrum.

Jim has taught me by example.

Last week I took Lowery to one of my favorite stores because I had received an email coupon for 50% off my entire purchase. Yep, 50%. When we got there, it was apparent that many other women received the same coupon. The store was packed. And my child sat patiently in her stroller while I piled it high with clothes. She watched patiently as I tried on numerous sweaters and dresses and one self-esteem killing pair of jeans. She looked on patiently as I searched through the scarves and earrings and belts. And when I finally got in line, a line that was 11 people deep, she decided it was time to stop being so goddamn patient.

She started to clench her fists. Her cheeks started to redden. But before she could arch her back, I unbuckled her, stood her on the ground and held my breath. We were in the middle of a crowded store with a bunch of bargain-hungry women all standing unhappily in a slow-moving line. What would Lowery do? Would she run around the store knocking over mannequins? Would she break the jewelry display? Would she put all the medium tops on hangers marked large and shove them in the petite section? Or would she just bolt?

She did none of these things. She simply stood by me, playing with the buckles in her stroller seat. She looked up occasionally to talk with the other ladies in line and eat some Goldfish crackers. And she did this, happily, for twenty solid minutes until it was my time to pay for my merchandise. Then she began to melt down. The clerk rang up the clothes while I chased Lowery around the store. I threw money at the clerk as I ran back by the register to pull Lowery off a small table displaying sweaters. And then, as if escaping a fire, I tucked Lowery under one arm, grabbed my sack of clothes from the cashier and pushed the stroller with my hip at full speed as my daughter began to wail.

And once we got outside, she was happy again. Walked beside me pushing the stroller. Clapped happily at a pigeon. And pleasantly babbled during the drive home.

It occurred to me, for the first time, that just because I'm having to sacrifice a lot for my child doesn't mean I'm not getting all the things I want, too. It may be a crazy, stressful time in my life, but I'm still getting to be a good mother and have a good career. It may be hard to find time for my husband and me to get away, or watch a movie, or make out, but we are still happily married. And I may have to be super creative to entertain a child in a crowded store and fight a budding tantrum, but I still got this season's fitted sweater jacket at 50% off retail.

So I think I'm starting to understand how best to handle my daughter's tantrums and my own tantrums.
Which is to understand that tantrums are a wonderful thing.

Because they mean you are thinking about yourself.