I will be the first to admit that I am not always camera ready when my mom wants to take a picture of me. My hair is messy, my skin is breaking out, or I didn’t get much sleep the night before. None of those things stop my mom from wanting to take the picture. “It’s for the memories,” she says with a big smile. In the moment, I don’t care about the memories. All that is going through my mind is that my mom has that picture of me forever and has a very active Facebook account.
At 21 years old, I have finally come to accept that the bad pictures are the good stories.
I used to cringe when I would open up photo albums and see four-eyed brace face Emily front and center. Now, I look back and laugh. That phase was part of me growing up. It also reminds me to order more contacts and put my retainer back in so that I never go through that stage again. Now when I look at those pictures hanging in our living room I can appreciate them. I appreciate them because in those same pictures my sister is an adorable little toddler and my brother is a cute elementary school kid instead of the smelly college freshman he is now.
Frankly I would probably categorize all pictures taken of me from ages 12-15 as bad pictures. Yet, if I did not let my mom take my picture for those three years, I would have no pictures from junior high. I would have no pictures of the beginning of my friendships with the people that became my best friends through all of junior high and high school. I would have no pictures of me playing softball with teammates I continued to play with for years to come.
Looking back, I’m grateful that not getting my picture taken was never an option in my house. All of those pictures are now in albums that I look back at with friends and family and laugh.
Thanks for taking the picture, Mom.
Guest blogger Emily Corbid is currently a senior Communications major at the College of St. Benedict, St. Joseph, MN.