There are two ends of myself, continually in the midst of battle with one another. There is, on one end, the desire for posterity. For being the memory keepers for my boys, for being the memory keeper for myself. There is a desire to document these tricky beginnings of each other – all throughout the muddled middle of life. If I'm lucky, we’ll look back to witness decades of growth far beyond pencil scratches to the kitchen pantry door frame.
But then there is the other end of me: the one that wonders what good can possibly come from housing 7,625+ photos in my camera roll. The one who thinks I might be a smidge less stressed if we untethered our minds and hands from the self-given role of daily family historian. Surely the moment exists if not captured in pics? Surely I can keep it forever, stored in my heart and not in my hard drive.
