If good parenting was judged by the number of photos of my child scattered about the home, I would be one giant failure. Oh, it's not that I don't have pictures of my son. I have tons of them ... in a big box in the closet. There's a most recent photo of him that sits on my bookshelf. There are always promises made to myself that I'll get photo albums and frames, but that's yet to happen. One day ...
What brought this line of thinking about was my scrounging through the big box of photos this morning. With Christmas staring me in the face, I remembered the cutest pictures taken of Mancub when he was 5 years old. A photography studio was called upon at his pre-k to take memorable Christmas photos. Seeing them always brings forth a giant puddle of tears. Where has that little boy gone?
Imagine Chevy Chase as Clark Griswold in Christmas Vacation when he's holed up in the attic ... blubbering like a fool as he views a movie from his childhood. That isn't too far from what it looked like as I sat on my living room floor digging through the corrugated brown treasure trove of memories. Sans turquoise turban, of course.
The last time I gushed over the photo featured in Mancub's presence, he rolled his eyes and implored me to stop being such a dork. Then, he saw the tears in my eyes and hugged me. He sees the picture and asks what was up with his hair. I look at it and see the excitement of Christmas. Innocence of childhood.
And the spirit of the season takes hold.