P: Mooma, Mamoo, Mama.

Once you become a mother, you become the keeper of memories. You are suddenly responsible for the collecting, compiling, and storing of all of the firsts: teeth, steps, words. You store them away jealously, guarding these details that mark the passing of time. You study them and file them, like there might be a pop quiz at any moment.

One of the most important parts of being the archivist of your children’s childhood is the photographic documentation of their every waking moment, and frankly a fair number of their sleeping moments too. I started to notice, when scrolling through the countless digital images, that something, or rather someone, was missing. I had become such a diligent archivist, that I had managed to eliminate myself. It was then that I started making an attempt to pass the camera to Jim.

I realized that I couldn’t be alone, so I started to make a real effort when I had my camera with me, to watch, when I was around the other mothers in my life, woman that I admire and respect, and if I could, to snap a picture for them. While I started out just snapping pictures for them, I ended up finding so much joy, beauty, and strength.

Being the keeper of the memories is not an easy job. Some of those memories are heavy and hard to hold. We are all someone’s child, and even if it isn't a mother who holds your memories, tomorrow is a good day to say thank you.

And to those of you have taken on your own archival duties, remember to pass the camera off, to make yourself a part of the record, because your children deserve to see your joy, your beauty, and your strength.

Happy Mother’s Day.

O: Mommy, I don't love you.

And she is three, but someday she will be 13 and 33 and on and on and on. This tiny person who is a mirror I hold up to my heart every day, says things to me that I have said to myself, in the dark and quiet spaces of my mind, where I sometimes hide. She says it frankly and with no malice, some kind of test, or she says it while hurling herself at the ground, her body hot with anger and her face red, wet, and salty. She is a tiny sponge sopping up all of the sweat and tears I have left behind. It takes my breath away, like a punch to the gut.

K: That's ok, bug. I love you enough for both of us.

O: Mommy, you have a soft, squishy belly.

And she is right. The folds of my skin have multiplied over time. Where there was once a firm stretch of smooth, tan skin pulled taunt over organs and muscle, there is now a soft, doughy pad, a pillow for the downy heads that find their way to me on the couch. Their tiny hands and impossibly perfect feet have clawed and kicked the vanity out of me, leaving me content with my own softness. It is because my human form was stretched and I expanded, responding to the needs of the people I have made. It has left its mark on my soul. It would be shameful if it had not also left its mark on my body.

K: I love my soft, squishy belly, because I got it when I made you.

O: Mommy, did you know that I am strong and brave?

And she is. My heart swells. In a world so big, in a body so small, she tackles new things daily with a voracity and passion that I envy, but I worry that this is simply the patter that we have filled her head with, words with no meaning, repeated for effect. I worry that my attempt to replace the voices of strangers has backfired; that the words of the woman in the grocery store, who pats her head and tells her she is pretty, or the voices of the parents at the park, who call her “princess,” will still echo in her ears, and that I have merely left her confused, still seeking the approval I want so badly for her not to need.

K: It doesn't matter what I know, my darling. All that matters is that you know.

O: Mommy, I love you.

And she does. But this is after 9:00pm, long after bath and stories and lullabies and cuddles. This is the hundredth time she has been out of her bed tonight, popping up like a jack-in-the-box at the same moment I sit down on the sofa and attempt to shut off the noise in my head by switching on the television. She has been out for water, colder water, trips to the bathroom, a pajama switch, because the ones she picked at bedtime became too itchy. She has had her back scratched, rubbed and tickled. And yet, here she stands, back-lit by the hall light, dragging her quilt behind her. She crawls into my lap. Somehow, the top of her head still smells like sunshine and the fire from our camping trip over a month ago. I breathe her in. Even though she should have been asleep hours ago, even though I have never been more tired in my life, even though I'm not sure how today ends, I put my lips close to her ear, like I’m sharing a secret meant only for her.

K: I love you too.

Mother's Day: a photo essay

Conversations With My Daughter