Pictures matter to me. A lot. I take a dozen pictures a day. I'm not trying to take professional quality pictures, but I become adamant about capturing a certain image in my mind. I want evidence of the everyday details of our life. That's why I started blogging. If I'm not doing something each day that is worthy of taking a picture, I'm not content.
Jesse hates this fact about me. It is a frequent cause of arguments between the two of us. Nothing seems to annoy him more than me snapping a photo multiple times until I get the image I want. Throughout my pregnancy, each weekly belly photo was the highlight of my week and the low of his. Nothing annoys me more than his unwillingness to take a simple picture. Or his frustration when my siblings and I require the same picture on each of our cameras.
So, why do I care? I've come to the saddening realization that pictures are all I have left. It makes me feel sick to my stomach admitting this, but I don't have many memories left of my father. Memories with mom are fading, too. Thankfully, I have photo albums and boxes full of pictures from my childhood. Pictures that my mother took and likely annoyed the rest of us while taking them. Pictures that trigger otherwise forgotten memories.
One day, the only thing that will be left of my story is pictures. So maybe I don't need five different pictures of the babies in their pajamas. But I appreciate every last one of them. And when I'm gone, my family will appreciate them, too.