From My Son's Lens
By Rachel Lynn Lawrence
@rachellynnlawrence
I’m not really sure if I’m doing okay.
At least, that's what the Instagram caption would say if I posted any of the snapshots from the past few weeks.
If I were to sum my last few weeks into snapshots, most of the images would not be worthy of Instagram—filters included. If my actual motherhood life were on Instagram, it would certainly not be follow-worthy. There would be images of dishes piled along my countertop, creating an ombre effect from the sink to the stove. Sepia-toned filters would overlay my tired eyes. Another square would be in black and white, a picture of me scrolling through my phone instead of interacting with any one of my three children. And, not included in any post: poses of abs after babies, nor any captions that proclaimed I had lost the baby weight or that I had lost any baby weight.
Yet another square would be a stylized flat-lay of me, alone, curled in the fetal position on the floor while the needs of everyone but my own were scattered around, begging for attention. There may be a reel (or two) of original audio as I fully lose my patience and act out irrationally. Of course, this reel would include subtitles and hovering texts throughout—each an example of something not to do as a mother. My profile info would read something like,
Failing mom of three littles under three.
Link to buy me more coffee in profile.
DMs for encouragement are encouraged.
***
Last night, I gave my 3-year-old a digital camera that was collecting dust in our storage room. Our plan was to charge the battery overnight and try the camera for the first time in the morning.
His sleep-filled eyes beamed as his feet patter quickly into the living room this morning, the plan not far from his memory. “Momma! Is the battery for my camera all charged?” It is … and so is he.
I gingerly take my three-month-old baby girl off my breast and instinctively create shushing sounds so I can place her into her swing. I take a slow sip of lukewarm coffee, as if caffeine will automatically energize and morph me into being a different, a better, momma than I feel I was yesterday. I breathe deeply—and audibly. I’m aware that my morning quiet time is abruptly finished for the day, and I place my coffee cup into the microwave, determined to warm the last bits of caffeine up soon.
The green light glows on the newly found camera battery charger. I take the archaic digital camera and bend down to teach my son how to use it. He contagiously shows his smile as I explain to him how to take a photo and how to see the past images he had taken.
The sound of a shutter clicking follows me throughout the day.
Click. Elijah, our middle child, is awake and babbling to his stuffed animals in his crib. He clutches tight to his neon-orange lion with one hand, and grasps the crib rails with the other, eager to join us for our day. On his chevron gray sheets, I notice the tell-tale darker circle that indicates the double-diaper trick didn’t work, again. I strip the sheets and mattress pad off.
Click. My husband leaves for the day to go to work, and my boys both attempt to slip on their Crocs fast enough so they can go with him. They cling to his leg and contrive ideas for him to stay home instead of leave. They’d rather be with him, my mind surmounts from the brief scene.
Click. I’m bending over, cleaning up the toys that have been dumped from the bin again. This time, I’m not taking the initiative to sort out the ones that belong somewhere else.
We recharge the battery at noon. The sound of his camera as he photographs stuffed animals, documents the bread on his plate at lunch, and coaxes his younger brother and baby sister to pose subsides.
Until the battery is charged again.
The sounds of the camera assimilated into our day. My little photographer’s smile stayed proud, and the flashing of the camera continued. The clicks were heard amidst the fights between brothers, the cries from my youngest, and all the laughter throughout the day. The clicks surrounded our daily devotional time, joined in with the clang of clean utensils in the sink, and added to the soundtrack of the Disney movie we watched in the afternoon.
Something began to happen.
The joy of capturing miniscule moments, and the sheer wonder of finding delight in each second was contagious, and the contagion spurred me to delight in being captured in his frame.
I began to not just make it through the day, but to cherish it; one captured click at a time.
Eventually, the day subsided. The task of putting my three to sleep was completed, and the house was shushed to silence. As a nightly rhythm of resetting, I re-homed the final scattered toys, rearranged the pillows on the couch, and positioned the throw blankets strategically on the armchair and the loveseat. I carefully tucked my son’s new camera into its case, brewed a cup of chai tea, and turned on a few soft lamps. When I finally sat down, I wondered what images were on my son’s camera.
The sing-song melody I heard dozens of times throughout the day chimed as I turned his camera on. Most images were blurry and overexposed. But through the graininess, the images exposed me. They exposed the lie I had been believing. The lie that had crept in and told me that I wasn’t a good mom. That I wasn’t quite enough for all three. That I wasn’t doing any of this well. That I wasn’t okay.
Those blurry and grainy images told a different story than I had been telling myself. Instead of seeing only piled dishes, I also saw myself as I washed them. I saw my face as I looked back toward my daughter, who sat in an infant chair on the counter. My mouth was pursed as I cooed to her, creating a conversation while I took care of our home. I no longer saw sepia-toned eyes, I saw happy ones. Tired, yes, but at peace—eyes that were bordered by wrinkles wrought from years of laughter. I saw an image of myself while I nursed my daughter, phone in hand. Yet, I didn’t feel bad about it. I knew that, in that captured moment, I was writing down a memory of her in the notes app, utilizing technology to catalogue a memory that would otherwise slip away, akin to taking a photograph. Included was a close-up of my backside, cellulite and all, followed by one that showed some extra curves on my stomach. Surprisingly, the images didn’t cause me disgust, but gratitude. I felt grateful for the few extra pounds around my middle that created a soft cushion to hold my daughter close. Grateful for the womb God made in me so that He could knit all three within.
Instead of captioning my motherhood life as, “Failing mom of three littles under three,” I quickly thought that a more fitting caption could be, “Intentional, real motherhood.”
There weren’t any images of me in a fetal position. There weren’t any of me crying. There weren’t any of me bogged down by too many tasks. There weren’t any of me being a “bad mom.” There were simply images of a typical day, doing typical things, and glimpses of me as a typical mom. A typical mom who was, yet again, gently reminded she was living an extraordinarily blessed and beautiful life, surrounded by three little souls who were extraordinarily cared for.
My own contrived mental snapshots of all the ways I thought I had failed in motherhood were replaced that day by actual snapshots that tangibly showed me something different. I was given little digital glimpses that proved something: not only am I not failing, but I’m thriving. More importantly, they are thriving. My children are real, living proof that God is sustaining them in all the ways I can’t, and that He is sustaining me in my typical, yet extraordinary role of motherhood. I may not live up to my own, unattainable, perfect Instagram ideal of a mom. But I have the snapshots to prove I’m daily living, daily growing, and daily nurturing them as their mom. And that is more important than any ideal motherhood feed I could ever desire to curate.
The singsong melody of the camera fills the quiet space of my living room as I turn my son’s camera off. I take a deep breath, prayerfully inhaling God’s presence and exhaling the lies I had begun to craft within my mind. Today, I know they were replaced by beautiful truths, captured one blurry snapshot at a time.
Guest essay written by Rachel Lynn Lawrence. Rachel delights in each day with her husband, Steve, and their three children, Isaiah, Elijah, and Ruth. She enjoys early morning quiet times, being home in their “Northwoods Eden” and deep theological study of God. She has been in seminary her entire motherhood life and will be completing her MDiv in 2021. Rachel is the Founder of a new online motherhood ministry, Momma Theologians. She has a passion for equipping fellow mothers to grow in relationship with God and believes spiritual growth can be revived in the midst of motherhood. Rachel enjoys connecting with others on Instagram.
Photo by Ashlee Gadd.