By Lindsey Cornett
@lindseycornett

“What is bluetooth?” my son asks. 

I had just finished explaining that for some reason, my phone would not connect to the bluetooth speaker and so no, I could not make the music any louder right now. Do I know what bluetooth is? Of course not. At this point, it’s an invisible force I take for granted.

My husband, Evan, is the tech guru in our house, but he is at work so I am left to consult Google. I read, “Bluetooth. A short-range wireless technology standard used for exchanging data between fixed and mobile devices over short distances using UHF radio waves…” I trail off.

“Let’s ask Dad when he gets home.”

Long after my subpar technological lecture, when the kids are asleep and the house is quiet, my hands are submerged in soapy dishwater when I am surprised by the appearance of a photograph on our television screen. I neglected to turn off the television when the kids’ screen time ended, and now it has gone into screensaver mode like my high school desktop computer. The photo on display is one I don’t recognize.

It’s me and my three children snuggled up close on the couch at our last rental house, reading The Jesus Storybook Bible. I’m wearing a Moms Demand Action t-shirt—clearly with no bra—and I don’t even have my glasses on. It must have been taken late at night or, no, a lazy Saturday morning seems more likely. 

I’m confident I should have seen it before, during one of my daily deletes, perhaps, or one of the many times I’ve needed a bio photo for a writing submission and bemoaned the utter lack of semi-decent photos of me. I smile. And then I realize: these are Evan’s photos scrolling across the screen.

Evan has long been obsessed with technology. When we bought our house, he set out to create a smart home. Google is now available at all times to lend assistance, lights can dim or change color at predetermined times of day, and our television is smarter than me (and by that I mean unworkable). He tells me the TV should be very intuitive, but I have no room in my working memory for which input is for which device. We are now a two remote household—a fate I swore I’d never succumb to. 

I’m surprised by this photo tonight because I’ve appointed myself the memory-keeper in this family. I am a high-input person who has been scrapbooking since middle school and journaling since before I even knew how to spell. It’s an extension of my creativity, but also … I’m the mom. Taking the photographs and remembering the stories is just an extension of my roles, another ounce of invisible labor I carry. I snap frantic photos every day like I’m running out of time. Like all this will be forgotten one day. Like I’ll be forgotten. Who will keep the memories of me? 

Deep down, I know my significance here. I know this family would not exist without me. My husband loves me. My children adore me (though I wish they showed it by eating what I make for dinner). Yet somehow, I am still afraid. I am a force as fundamental and omnipresent as gravity, but am I just as invisible?

***

Through most of 2015 and 2016, the entire world seemed to be falling apart, and my interior world followed suit. At home with a newborn and a strong-willed toddler (not to mention a surprise pregnancy), I had postpartum depression but didn’t know it. We lived 1,200 miles away from all our friends and family, and Evan worked 12+ hours a day, 6 days a week, desperate to prove he belonged in the job for which he’d trained for years. 

On many afternoons, I’d send a text asking, “How’s your day going?” or “Any thoughts on what to make for dinner?” I did not say, “I’m all alone here. I don’t think I can make it to bedtime. Please, I need you.” But when the poor cell phone signal in his lab or back-to-back meetings meant I didn’t get a response, my unwell, anxious thoughts convinced me he’d rather be at work than at home with me and our babies. Most mornings, I pulled the covers over my head and wondered what would happen if I ran away. Would it matter?

On Christmas Day, less than two weeks before our daughter was born, I reached into my stocking and found a piece of computer paper folded into quarters. It was bumpy and oddly heavy. When I unfolded it, I found a black button affixed to the middle. It looked like a knob from our car stereo. Evan printed “Press Here,” across the top of the page, in the same style as the picture book my children often chose for a bedtime story.

“What is this?” I asked.

“It’s a bluetooth button,” he explained. “We can program it, so like, press it once and it will text me, or press it twice and it will email me. You can ask what time I’ll be back for dinner, or you can program it to say you need me to come home. If it comes from the button, I’ll know it’s urgent. So you can always know I’m here if you need me.”

I stared at the page some more, and tears fell harder and faster down my face as I read the note he included. I stood in the middle of our living room, my empty stocking in one hand and a bluetooth button (of all things) in the other. 

When depression and anxiety convinced me I was alone, Evan’s nerdy bluetooth button told me the truth.

***

Despite Evan’s technological prowess, he is not a photographer. He doesn’t understand you shouldn’t take photos of someone (me) while standing below them (me) looking straight up into their (my) double chins. His idea of documenting an event is to wave the camera around willy-nilly and hold down the shutter button, assuming at least one photo will be good.

From my spot at the kitchen sink tonight, many of the images I see are blurry shots of a kid in motion and puffy-cheeked photos of family members mid-chew or mid-sentence. I catch pictures of his lab benches and electrophoresis gels from work as well as screenshots of random reminders of things to Google later. 

But then there’s the good stuff. I see the kids at the kitchen counter on Pancake Sunday, their chins and noses dusted with powdered sugar. Ruthie on her birthday, smiling and clasping her hands beneath her chin at the sight of a purple cake. A selfie of Evan and the boys in the hammock together, squinting into the sun.

And I see myself, surrounded by our children, reading, holding hands on a walk, gathered around the table for a meal or celebration. 

I wash the dishes slowly, soaking up the abundant proof my husband sees me, rule-of-thirds be damned. 

Guest essay written by Lindsey Cornett. Lindsey is a loud talker, obsessive coffee drinker, and lover of the written word who lives in downtown Indianapolis with her scientist husband and three young kids. In both writing and life, she explores the intersections of faith, family, creativity, and freedom from perfectionism. Her writing has been featured in various on-line publications like (in)courage and Motherly, as well as in the book Strong, Brave, & Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds. You can find her on Instagram or at on her website.

Photo by Jennifer Floyd.