There used to be a time that I could get the kid to pose for all sorts of photos. Even when he was at the age when he never stood still, I could get him to at least pause and smile for the camera.
Now that he's 16, this is the best that I can expect to get. Without bribery.
You have to look close. The lanky thing in a camp shirt. Right behind me, darting out of the shot. Yeah. That.
Don't get me wrong, it is a very nice picture of part of his torso and I am glad to have it. It's just that he's growing up so freaking fast - taller and bolder and stronger and more confidant. I'm not all that sentimental, but lately I have been feeling that if I don't capture the moment, I won't have anything to compare it to. Will I remember that sweet face when he returns from two months at camp next summer with a weird, patchy beard and hair hanging in his eyes*?
I guess that I should've known this would happen. There are approximately four photographs of me that were taken between age 13 and 18. Or, I should say, there are four photos in existence. I went through a weird time with my hair** in the 80s.
Scrolling through the photos on my phone just now, I guess I shouldn't really complain. I do have more than 4 current pics of the boy. And he's even smiling in a few of them. My days of cramming him into a big mixing bowl a la Anne Geddes are long gone, but I'll take what I can get.
*Ok, that one probably won't happen. The boy's hair grows out, not down. Like mine, it gets bigger instead of longer. At least there's no question of where he came from...
**Yeah, this is a recurring theme. Jacob can blame me for his curls, but I have never been able to figure out where mine came from.