Family Photos

Since I've been posting photos for Wordless Wednesday, I've been going though some of my pictures. And I was reminded of a conversation I had with Mr. Fixit years ago when we were looking at proofs of our kids. Our oldest, 11 years old at the time, had a bright red cast on his right arm from hand to elbow. We were attempting to make our selections from the proofs and we were not agreeing on anything. He held one up and I said no. I held one up and he said no. I asked him why, all three boys looking in the general direction of the camera, 2 of the three smiling (The Boy rarely smiles for the camera). What about this photo didn't he like. His response was that he could see the cast. To which I responded that was one of the reason I liked it. He was shocked. Why would I like a photo that showed the cast; a dirty, grimy, graffiti-ed anomaly. 

Here's my take on it. I want photos of my kids that show them in that moment with all their wonderful, messy, quirky, imperfections. I don't want photos of my kids dressed to the nines all spit and polish sitting perfectly on a rock by a stream. I want the photo that shows the hole in my sons jeans, his bare toes in the water with his shoes discarded aside. I want the photo with the dirt on his cheek and his hands from the rocks he is throwing into the water. I want to see the look of pure joy that radiates from his eyes as he drops a handful of leaves on his brother's head. That is my boys. 

When my boys are grown and gone and I'm 80 years old living in a retirement home I don't want to look at a photo album full of posed pictures that do not represent the life we lived. I want to remember all the imperfect moments of our life. The cast and what it represented. I want to remember the story.

It started out common enough, the story of many a broken arms. He was at baseball camp, dove to catch a pop fly, and landed on his arm. Although in pain, he told his coach he wanted to stay the rest of the day and watch. So he did. That night we were heading out of town to attend a sports festival at the Fun House. He was signed up for the kids Tri. He insisted his wrist would be fine with some Advil and an ace bandage, it was just sprained. He refused to go to the doctor, didn't complain at all. So we loaded up the car and left. 

The next day was the Tri. We put a brace on his wrist, gave him more Advil and off he went to the starting line. We went to the first transition to wait for him to exit the water. When I saw him, I knew. I KNEW. He was in severe pain, ghostly white, holding his arm up gingerly trying to run to his bike. I started yelling at him to get off the course, to stop. Yelling at the top of my lungs; screaming like a maniac. He looked at me and shook his head no. And he kept going. Off on his bike with his arm held up, only one hand on the handlebars. I watched him ride off and then ran to the finish to wait. 

I would not have believed it, but when he crossed the finish line he was past ghostly white. He had tears in the corners of his eyes. I took him by his good hand straight to the medic tent. The medic took about 30 seconds to tell us to take him into town to the emergency room; he was pretty sure it was broken. So I load him in the car and off we go. It's a 20 minute drive.

During the 20 minute ride, that child of mine informed me that he was sure it was broken. I asked him why he thought so. He then told me that when he fell on it at baseball camp, he heard it snap. You what?!?!? Why in the world would you have not told us? Because I wanted to run the Tri he said. After a stern lecture about how he should have said something, he could have further injured it, or caused permanent damage, blah, blah, blah (all the appropriate parenting jargon) we arrived at the emergency room.

In the end, it was broken. Both bones. My dumb kid ran a Tri with 2 broken bones. Thankfully, no permanent damage was done.  And now, 8 years later, we laugh about this story. Really? What 11 year old runs a tri with broken bones. What parent allows it. We do not dwell on the bad parenting part (I should have taken him to the doctor the day it happened, no options) or the poor judgment of the 11 year old. We talk about the good characteristics he showed: perseverance, commitment, mental toughness. And when I look at the photo of the boys with the oldest in a bright red, grimy cast I smile. That kid was something else. 

That's what I want to remember with the help of photos that document our unique, messy, quirky, glorious lives.