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.