Anson got a new camera last week. Not like a digital point-and-shoot camera, but like a CAMERA, in all caps, italics and bold. He and his (very generous) father had long talks on the phone which led to a camera coming to Anson in the mail, and I’ve never seen my husband look more like a 5-year-old child who just received his first Hot Wheels set. His eyes are bright when he holds it, and he practically levitates when he shows off what it can do. It’s sweet to see Anson get something for himself – he rarely spends money on anything that is just for him. Except beer. But even that has been downgraded to a money-saving beverage I don’t trust all that much that comes from the corner Bodega and smells more of skunk than hops and barley.
Back to the camera. So Anson loves this thing and will hardly put it down. Which means he’s snapping the living daylights out of Roan, and even taking a few of me. I typically don’t mind these photo sessions because Roan and I will basically ignore the man behind the camera, and just do what we’re doing, never really having to see the resulting images of us mid-word, mid-blink, or mid-about-to-take-a-bite-of-food. But did I mention that Anson is excited really I mean it excited about this machine? So after a long day of trick-or-treating yesterday, we talked Roan down off his sugar high, got him into bed, and Anson began showing me the great shots he got.
And there were beauties. Beauties of the kids we were with. So sweet and Halloween-scary. Beauties of our friends we were with, all put together and gorgeous, our friends.
And then there was me. Boo hoo.
Let’s just state the obvious and that is that at 37 weeks pregnant with twins, I am not looking my most amazing glamorous best of all time forever and ever amen. But the good news is that I have a special filter in my head that must allow me to see more of my earlier self than my present self when I look in the mirror. And that filter unfortunately did not come with my husband’s camera. Oh, how I wish he would have paid extra for that filter, because it may have prevented my little mini-self-hating-temper-tantrum I threw while looking at the pictures, which resulted in my calmly handing the computer to Anson and saying, “I cannot look at one more picture of myself”, and then stomping down our stairs with a frumpy angry “Good night!” and some more boo hoo while I threw all the covers and pillows over my head. And I was mad, at him. Because….he….should have known….how I looked in these photographs….and he….should have….never have taken them.
“But I think you look beautiful….” was the confused voice of Anson that followed me down the stairs. Hmph. Bah. Clearly drinking too much skunky cheap beer.
And in true mother’s talk fashion, I told my friend Lola this morning how awful these pictures were, to which she replied totally matter-of-fact, “It’s just too soon, and in a year you will look at the same pictures and think they’re great.”
So, maybe she’s right and I owe that guy an apology. Could be. We’ll see in a year’s time….but I think she could be right. Because I look at the funny big-bellied pictures of me when I was pregnant with Roan, before I knew who he was, and I adore them. I adore them now because I know how much love and sweetness and awesome magical power came from that wonky belly. I suspect there is more magical super power coming out of this (currently titled) abomination I call my belly, and that later I will look back on it with the sweet tenderness I feel for my pics of Ro and me, before I even knew how we fit together.
I know at the end of this post I should post one of the pictures I hate, but no. It’s not been a year yet. 24 hours later, and I still am not digging them. Sorry! But here’s one to melt your heart: