I have so many vivid memories of being pregnant with Matthew.
I never forgot the way it felt to have him squirm around inside of me throughout those last couple of months, when my skin felt like the rubber of an over-inflated balloon and his knees and elbows could be seen from the outside fighting for space. I remember being thrilled at every new sensation, wondering if this or that or the thing I felt yesterday might be some beginning sign of labor. I remember walking almost everywhere with my hands cradled dotingly underneath of my belly-button; affectionately handling both my belly itself and the baby inside of it in almost equal parts. I remember having to stop in front of every mirror I passed when a glimpse of a pregnant profile would catch itself in my peripherals. I remember loving everything unfamiliar to me about my pregnant body. Looking back now, it’s a good thing I have these memories, because memories were all that I had once he was born.
I got my first camera about a week before Matthew was due in preparation for his birth. Consequently though, there’s almost nothing to show from all the time that he and I shared that miraculous pregnant body. I can’t get that time back - but this time, I vowed from the beginning, would be different. I didn’t let a week go by before I snapped the first shot of my mid drift in those long lost American Eagle jeans.
As the months have passed, the pictures have become better and better reflections of the great time I have taking them. I didn’t just want a chronicle of inches added to my waist, I wanted a story to tell with each picture taken. I wanted as much permanence as I could possibly squeeze out of this cluster of trimesters. But Most of all, I wanted my daughter and I have to have something real to cling to from this time - something more than a picture of me standing against a wall recording weight and inches with every two weeks.
I want to be able to read these snapshots to her like a favorite childhood story, something we can both share and return to, and share again when she’s just a little bit older.
Last night Spencer grilled up steaks in the backyard while I mashed potatoes in the kitchen. Matthew and the dog pitter-pattered together in and out of the screen door between us until dinner was ready. While we waited for dinner to cool, Spencer actually asked me if I wanted to take a few pictures before the sun went down. He set up the tripod. He told me how pretty I was between every couple of clicks, and he helped get Matthew into some of the pictures by telling him that these were for his baby Scarlett.
After we ate dinner outside and caught fireflies with Matthew at the end of Riley’s walk, Spencer and I came in to look over some of the pictures. He said, “you know, there was this picture of my mom pushing me on a swing when I was a kid. And even though there wasn’t anything too special about that picture or about that day, I always looked at it and thought about how much my mom must have loved me to take the time out of her day to just do that with me… Then I think about my dad being the one taking the picture, and I think, ‘hm, he must have really loved me too.”
Lord knows, these children should never have to wonder.
And neither will I.
