I gave up using the video camera six years ago when Sam was born.  We got the camera from my in-laws when Amy was a baby and we used it all the time.  Her early steps, words, and all of her first birthday parties (you know, one with my parents, one with my in-laws, one with friends, and one on the actual day of her birthday) are in the family archives forever.  The family grew quickly, but, because I still only had two hands, the videotaping tapered off until I stopped it altogether.  Several years ago, a dear friend spent many hours converting all of our videotapes into DVDs and they are precious to me.  The children love watching them, too, laughing uproariously at themselves as infants and toddlers.  As happy as I feel when we watch these videos, I always feel a twinge of guilt that poor Sam’s early years were not adequately documented.

            As with most practices that come about out of necessity, I had to develop a philosophy on camera use that fit the reality that I simply was not able to keep up with it.  As I searched for a good reason to justify my neglect, I recalled Joel’s preschool graduation.  I remember that he was wearing his frog shirt and aqua sandals and that his head was covered in gorgeous, light brown curls.  I remember that when they presented pictures the children had drawn of what they wanted to be when they grew up, he wanted to be a basketball player.  I remember that I cried, because I was overcome once again with my delight in this fascinating five-year-old boy. But I also remember that every family in the audience was watching it through the lens of a video camera.  “This demographic is heavy on the video cameras,” Mike pointed out, as he looked around the room.  And I found myself feeling for a moment like we were all at work, recording data, and not sharing the experience at all.

            Several years ago, I came across a poem by Wendell Berry that soothed my ever-aching mother’s conscience.  I would love to sit and watch Sam take his first steps and smear birthday cake all over his face again, but since I cannot, I take comfort in knowing that I did not miss the events.

 

The Vacation

 

Once there was a man who filmed his vacation.

He went flying down the river in his boat

with his video camera to his eye, making

a moving picture of the moving river

upon which his sleek boat moved swiftly

toward the end of his vacation.  He showed

his vacation to his camera, which pictured it,

preserving it forever: the river, the trees,

the sky, the light, the bow of his rushing boat

behind which he stood  with his camera

preserving his vacation even as he was having it

so that after he had had it he would still

have it.  It would be there.  With a flick

of a switch, there it would be.  But he

would not be in it.  He would never be in it.