Our daughter was born before iPhones were invented so her babyhood was documented the old-fashioned way. We took shots with a camera then had the film developed into photographs which we carefully slotted into plastic sleeves in an album. How quaint.
I was idly flipping through one such album recently. She was our firstborn (last, too, as it happens) so there is no shortage of images. All the expected shots were present and correct:
Baby gate-crashing her father's 40th birthday celebrations? Check.
Baby sitting in her colourful activity-centre? Check.
Baby in highchair? Check
Baby with proud parents? Check.
Baby "reading"? Check
Baby on Christmas Day? Check.
Baby with grandparents? Check.
Baby laughing? Check.
So far, so ordinary. It was almost a relief when one particular shot finally broke the cheerful monotony. Her eyes were narrowed. Her mouth was gummy and wide. One tiny hand clenched angrily at the white sock on her left foot. She was bawling as she lay in her cot. I think I can recall that particular afternoon; she went from contented to crying in a matter of nanoseconds for no discernible reason.
It made me wonder what sort of mother would choose to whip out of the room and rush down the hall to retrieve a camera, rather than comfort her clearly distressed baby.