Captured on film: Our imperfect histories

Recently, while enjoying the Chihuly glass on display at Meijer Gardens, my son walked right in front of someone taking a picture. He was oblivious, and so I turned and apologized to the woman.

"Well, he'll forever be a part of your trip to Meijer Gardens," I started to say.

But before I could finish the sentence, the woman smiled and said, "Oh, don't worry. It's digital, you know. I can just delete that one."

For a millisecond, I was hurt: Hey, that's my son you're talking about. You can't delete him.

But I knew what she meant. It's easy to get rid of photos that don't turn out.

And that's exactly the problem with digital cameras.

Oh sure, there's a ton of good reasons to own digital cameras. We own two, and I do like their convenience. I can take pictures that day, put them on my computer and send photos to my friends or family via e-mail. It's easy. And with families living so far apart these days, it's something special, too.

Still, with digital photos, something is being missed.

My brother's good side

When I was growing up, I loved looking through our photo albums. One of those albums has a picture of my then 2-year-old brother on the beach visiting family in England. There is a another kid in the picture, and I remember asking who that little boy was. No one knew. It was just a child my brother played with that day. Just some random kid who made it into our family album.

But that photo helps tell the story of the day. It tells a little about who he was as a toddler. And even though I didn't see that side very often, I recognized through that picture my brother could play well with others and be nice.

These days, that kid would be cropped out or the photo deleted. There are no random shots.

What's the problem with that?

Maybe nothing. But maybe it is allowing us to create an untrue history of our lives. Or at least an incomplete one.

Hair and history
Or maybe I am just overly sensitive to photos. I have naturally curly hair. During the adolescent years, curly hair can be a cross to bear. I had four solid years of bad hair days. If I could have deleted photos of myself, I wouldn't have any proof that my teen years existed. Seriously.

Looking back, I laugh at that poor girl who had no idea what to do with that mass of curls. Those photos help me remember who I was then. They remind me of sitting in front my best friend's makeup table with her trying desperately to figure out how I could "do" my hair. They remind me that when I was in sixth grade, my mom signed me up for an after-school beauty course. (Yep, it was that bad.) They remind me of the time my friend ironed my hair with a clothing iron. That didn't work, either.

But such photos are more than just glimpses of my past. They remind me of who I have become and how I got here. They remind me of what a challenge I could be to my parents — and of how today I am so grateful for everything they've done. They remind me of the bad boyfriends I picked and the friends who were there through each and every bad hair day.

Good or bad, without these photos, an important part of my history would be lost.

Capturing a moment

The idea that you can hit delete without thinking through what you might erase concerns me. And yet, I do it, too.

When I was in kindergarten, I went to picture day wearing a brown dress that I hated. Over the summer, my grandma watched me for a few days and cut my hair — big time. Chopped it right off. As all the other girls bounced around with their hair neatly coiffed, I was sad.

When the photographer prompted me to "say cheese," I didn't even crack a smile. It was pathetic.

When my mom saw the pictures weeks later, she wanted retakes. So we tried again. They were just as bad. At that time in my life, no one was going to make me smile if I didn't want to.

Now, fast forward to the digital age.

In about a week, my kids' school will host its annual registration. While we are signing up for lunches and learning about our kids' teachers, a photographer will snap our kids' school pictures. The photographer uses a digital camera, and I get to stand and watch. He or she shows me the photo, and I say, "Mmm, nah. Let's try another." I could stand there annoying the person behind me as I try to get the "perfect" photo.

But maybe photos aren't supposed to be perfect. Maybe they are supposed to catch the essence of who we are in that moment. When I was in kindergarten, I was a pistol. If you saw me with a sweet, little smile, it wouldn't embody the truth of that time.

Photos are supposed to catch a moment in time. The happy, the sad, the silly moments that make up a life. You can't delete that.

Photo captions:

Photo one: Me and mom — Can't you just read my mom's mind? Oh yeah. These were the happy mother/daughter years.

Photo two: Me and friends — That's me standing in the background. Yes, I was cool, thank you very much. And so was my hair.

Photo three: Me in second grade — Not to be confused with my suspiciously misplaced kindergarten photos. This one was taken in second grade. Apparently my "no smile" phase was longer than I realized. And can you see the stain on the front of that sweater? Nice.

Wanna see awkward photos of other families that we should all be grateful didn't get deleted? Check out it out.

Toy Story: The Final Straw

If you've ever stepped on a Lego or thought seriously of "accidentally" vacuuming up all of Polly Pocket's accessories, you know where I am coming from.

We have too many stuffed animals. We have too many Legos. We have too many Hot Wheels cars. We have way too many Bratz and Barbie dolls. (Yes, we own Bratz dolls. No lecture, please.) And why do so many toys have so many little accessories? We got rid of Lite-Brite at least a year ago, and I still am sucking up those little bulbs in my vacuum cleaner.

Go on; get lost

Recently, we watched "Toy Story 3," where Buzz, Woody and the gang get lost again. A great, funny, touching flick, but it kind of freaked me out. I don't like the idea that toys are plotting against me, refusing to get lost.

I've thought about "losing" A LOT of toys — doing what Andy's mom did in the film, donating them or shelving them in the attic. But it's really not that easy. Recently, my 6-year-old daughter asked where her Leap Frog reader went. The kid reads very well on her own and hasn't played with Leap Frog in a year. So I broke the news that I gave it to Goodwill.

The look she gave me: I could have been gum on her shoe.

Part of our problem is we have too many toys. But the bigger part of our problem is we have not enough orderliness.

Please save your judgmental thoughts. I'm sure it's my fault. I haven't taught my children to pick up. I am not consistent enough, I ... blah, blah, blah. Sometimes it's just easier to clean it up myself. But I know I can't clean their messes forever.

Hitting bottom

When we finished our basement a few years ago, we thought it might be an area the family could gather to play Wii or watch movies. But we never do, because it is such a mess. I am even embarrassed to have neighbor kids play down there.

I've known for a while that I needed to do something to teach my kids the lifelong skills of taking responsibility and taking care of their possessions.

But the straw that nearly broke Todd's back was Monday night. After returning from our long weekend, my husband headed downstairs to return our cooler to its rightful home in the utility room. Suddenly I heard, "Whoa!" Then a scramble to stay upright, and then "&#@% toys!" Todd nearly bit it on the stairs.

Time to take back the basement!

Check it out

In my effort to teach responsibility, I now am running my basement like a library. Yep, the kids are checking out their toys from me.

I sorted all the toys, put them into their rightful boxes and locked them in the utility room. I created a checkout sheet: They can have two toy categories in use at a time. So Carter can check out Legos and the train tracks, and Tatum can have Barbies and Polly, but to get other toys out, they have to pick up and return a toy.

I am still sorting out what "fee" I will charge if they don't return toys in a timely manner. But so far, the plan is helping.

I hope I don't have to monitor their toys for long. If my experiment works, they will get into a habit of taking care of their belongings.

If not, the story of our toys might not end so happily.

Hang me out to dry, I don't care

I never thought I would say this: The weather has been perfect the past couple of days.

Normally I wouldn't say that breezy, low 70s is my ideal summer day. I usually root for steamy hot temperatures to help me erase the memory of our bitter Michigan winters. But that was before I started hanging laundry. It is the perfect weather for hanging laundry out to dry.

I came to hanging laundry kind of begrudgingly. My husband mentioned it a couple of times awhile back, but my eye rolling kind of quieted the idea. You see, my in-laws have hung their laundry for years, so my husband grew up with crusty towels and pants that can stand on their own.

But it wasn't the fear of scratchy clothes that was holding me back.

I just didn't like the look of a laundry line in my backyard. I envisioned the old rusty posts of years past. Yuck. Plus, we don't have a huge yard, and I didn't want to waste good kid-playing space with my laundry line.

I also worried about what the neighbors might say. We live in a suburban neighborhood, and hanging all my clothes for prying eyes to see just didn't seem sensible. (Check this clip from the Colbert Report for a laugh about a community's fight over a laundry line.)

But since our kids have come into the picture, I have done a lot of crazy things. In an effort to teach them about being careful stewards of our Earth, I guess I have learned a few things, too.

So, on a trip to Menards looking for something entirely different, I stumbled upon laundry lines and found a sleek, retractable kind. Inconspicuous? I liked it! I brought it home, my husband installed it and, ever since, I've been wondering what took me so long.

Sure it's rewarding to know that in some small way I am helping the Earth. And it's good to know I am helping my family financially. (Find out how much hanging laundry really can help.)

But here's a little secret: I like hanging the laundry.

Yes, I really do. I know it sounds odd — friends have told me it is — but it's quiet when you're hanging laundry. No one bothers you during laundry time. They don't want to get caught helping. I've even gotten over the fear of hanging my unmentionables. I try to hang them on the lines between large T-shirts. Hidden and discreet. That's the way I like to hang my laundry.

Still, there's something soothing about standing out on a breezy, sunny, summer day, the trees rustling. You can get lost in thought. Or have no thoughts at all.

Then I open the back door to the sounds of fighting kids, the phone ringing or a barking dog. My moment is over.

Luckily, there's always another load of laundry.

Our little firecracker

The Fourth of July always has ranked high on my holiday list. It's right up there with Christmas as one of my favorites. As a kid, we spent the Fourth with my grandma and grandpa on Crystal Lake in beautiful, Beulah, Mich. When we were really little, all the uncles, aunts and cousins would come up, too. And we'd cram into the little cottage, even sleeping in the attic to make room for all.

But nine years ago, Independence Day took on a new meaning for our family.

Now, we also call it Carter's Independence Day.

On June 3, 2001, when our boy pushed his way into this world, he came early. He wasn't due until Aug. 11.

At the time, we lived in Muskegon. I woke up in the middle of the night with contractions and stumbled into the emergency room at Hackley Hospital, but I wouldn't stay long. I wasn't new at this. I was in the hospital the week before with similar symptoms, and I understood the gravity of my situation.

The doctor at Hackley attempted to stop my labor with drugs, but it did not work as hoped. So I traveled by ambulance to Grand Rapids and was admitted to Spectrum Butterworth. The hope was that they would stop my labor and I would stay in the hospital for several weeks until it was safe for our baby to be delivered.

Carter had other ideas. He was born at 11:39 p.m. at 3 pounds, 12 ounces.

He spent the next 31 days in the hospital — eight of those in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit hooked to different beeping machines. At one point, he needed an IV put into his forehead. He had blown out IV lines in both feet and arms with all his motion.

We were lucky. His health was good. But he needed to grow before we could take him home.

While he was in the hospital, Todd and I lived at the Ronald McDonald House in Grand Rapids so we could be close to Carter. I spent all day, every day at the hospital with him. My husband went in the morning to hold him before work and then as soon as he got out. We were at the hospital every night until 10 p.m.

In his first weeks, he lived in the incubator. We held him some, but he was fighting jaundice and needed to stay under the lights. We read to him, talked to him, changed his diapers, fed him. But mostly, we waited to take him home.

Finally, he was big enough. He could hold his body temperature and feed from a bottle. At 5 pounds exactly, he was ready to go home.

It was July 4, 2001.

It seemed fitting he would be released on Independence Day.

Oh yes, Independence Day fits him well. He showed us on the day he was born, he was doing things his way. It's a creed he still lives by today.

Seeing him now, you would not know Carter entered the world so petite. Our kid is one of the tallest in his class and one of the busiest, too. And befitting someone set loose on Independence Day, he's got a heart in which I think our forefathers would be proud. He loves the land and cares about our Earth. He goes on self-organized litter pickups, worries about pollution and cares deeply about all our world's animals.

Since Carter entered the world, not a day goes by we don't have fireworks in our home. Sometimes they are the kind that make you want to cover your ears and duck. But most of the time, they are the kind that make you "ooh" and "ahh." The kind that make you give thanks you are there for the show.

The Perfect Waffle

Waffles were taboo when I was growing up. We owned a really old waffle maker, one my parents likely got as a wedding gift. Dad was a breakfast guy. On the weekends, we could rest assured we would have omelets or pancakes, poached eggs or scrambled, and sausage patties or bacon cooked to perfection.

Once in a while, I had a hankering for waffles. Sadly, waffles were off the table. They were just not discussed. Dad and that waffle maker didn't get along. But I was always one to push the envelope, so one day I got up the courage to ask Dad to make waffles. Being a good sport and maybe a glutton for punishment, he agreed. He just likes to make people happy. And he likes to make breakfast.

But as soon as the words escaped my lips and Dad said, "yes," Mom voiced her concern. "Waffles?" she exclaimed. "No, not waffles. It will just ruin everyone's day!" Dad assured her it would be fine. He'd oil up the iron good this time. The waffles would be great.

Mom was right to be wary, though. Things went bad quickly. The first waffle was ready, but it stuck to the iron. It hit the trash. The second one surely would be better. The iron just needed to warm up. A little more oil. It was all good.

Number two is ready. We all sit anxiously. The iron opens. The waffle sticks. Forget the waffle, this time the whole waffle maker hits the trash. That was the end of waffles at our house for a long time.

Now, along comes that newfangled nonstick surface, and my husband and I get our own waffle maker for a wedding gift. And four years later, along comes Carter, our firstborn. He grows to be a power breakfast eater. The kid can put away adult-sized portions, times two. Lately, he has developed an interest in cooking breakfast. With some supervision, he's quite the cook. He even makes waffles.

Twenty-five years after the waffle fiasco of my childhood, my 9-year-old son has done it! He's brought waffles back to their rightful place at the breakfast table. And he's pretty pleased with his efforts, too. A few months ago, he made waffles for the first time for our family and, in his cooking glory, he gazed at the stack of waffles and shared his thoughts on what waffles can do for the world.

"People don't have to be perfect," he said. "But waffles can be."

The insight of a child.

Carter's waffles were perfect. Because he made them.

The boat is afloat with a flood of emotions

Today my dad pulled the old Evinrude motor out for the first time this summer and plunked it on the back of the little Sea Nymph fishing boat. Both, I know well. I grew up with that fishing boat and motor. And I spent countless hours of my childhood in the front of that boat, with one arm dangling just skimming the water, thinking about everything and nothing.

Now, it's a favorite spot of my two children, Carter and Tatum. So, today, when my dad asked for volunteers to hop in for a ride, they both scored seats. My dad turned to me standing on the dock and asked if I wanted to go, too. At the time, I wasn't feeling sentimental. Instead, I dreamed of the quiet time I was about to enjoy while they motored around the lake. Just me and my book ... ahhh. I'd take a pass on the ride, I said.

But before I turned to settle into the chair, I was caught off guard by something that pulled me back to my childhood. I watched them as my dad rowed the boat away from the dock. He turned toward the motor and tugged the pull-rope. Nothing. He tried again. A couple of grumbles from the motor. He pulled a third time, and the roar of the outboard motor filled the air. And with that familiar sound, my eyes filled and almost spilled over. I don't know what came over me. I looked at my two children, and either one of them could have been me all those years ago. My son, parked in my favorite spot right up front. And my daughter, looking at the water anticipating the thrill of the ride. It truly took my breath away.

I stood there taking in the moment waving to them. As quickly as I was pulled back in time, I was pushed right back to reality. "Mom!" Carter called. "Why do you have that weird look on your face?" That's my boy.

"You are all so cute," I shouted back.

It was true, and it was more than that, too. In that instant, I was filled with so many childhood memories crowding my brain. I loved that boat, its ancient motor and all the adventures we went on with it. I loved that guy driving the boat around the lake — now with my two crazy kids aboard. But most of all, I was filled with the gratitude that my children know that same love.