The cat's meow...

Okay, your kid is cute, but my cat is pretty darn cute too! Just "kidding." Even so, got your attention, didn't I? Speaking of kids, a friend called recently to let me know that she is fed up with parents these days. Not all of them, but quite a few. She fervently outlined a conspiracy theory involving an age-old contest that she says never ends, never changes, and never delivers any awards. It requires most parents, male and female, to think that their offspring are more advanced, intelligent and beautiful than any other children. "Of course they do," I replied. But my friend doesn't even pause to catch her breath. She goes on to say that the parents are always prepared to prove their point with visual aids...again and again and again. One four by six photo at a time. In this not-so-secret society that my friend described, parents compare their children with their friends' children. "Did you see how much better our little Tommy threw the ball than Timmy? And Timmy's three months older!" Again, I tried to tell her that this is natural "parental" behavior, but to no avail. She was committed to her conspiracy theory, and sticking to it. And while I certainly didn't buy into her theory, I thought my friend might be on to something, I just wasn't sure what it was...yet. Her ranting did make me think about poor little Timmy. Is he destined to throw the ball underhanded his whole life? Why not? Maybe he'll become a professional bowler. What about Tommy? Is it the big leagues for him, or perhaps the class bully? After letting my friend vent for a good long time, I finally said, "Okay, I'll bite. You don't have children at home anymore, how does this affect you?" Sorry I asked.

Before going further, my fed up friend issued a disclaimer (and so do I), saying that she doesn't want her friends with children to alienate her, and that she loves all of their cute little happy faces — in person! Now, let me issue my own disclaimer (more specifically): If the bootie fits, you must acquit...or at least consider a few of my friend's points. Just put yourself in her high heels for a mile or so around your local, stroller-laden, park.

This friend begins by explaining that it's not just the parents driving her crazy. She talks in depth about "today's" grandparents. She adamantly points out that grandmas don't look like grandmas anymore. She wonders what happened to the ladies with the high, blue hair — and now, so do I. Where are these little old ladies? I'm sure that, "The mysterious disappearance of the blue-haired grannies," or perhaps, "Today's 60 is the new 40," are topics for another day. For now, please read on...

My friend's current angst began when she arrived early to an exercise class one day. She was surprised to find mommy and grandma baby brag books being passed around for all to see. As she's rarely early to anything in her life, she wasn't aware that this is a regular before class routine. She was also surprised that some of her classmates were actually that old. As in grandma old. She tells me how great these grandmothers look, and how flexible they are. Anyway, back to class, where each Tuesday and Thursday she and her classmates pump iron to the beat. The first time my friend encountered this baby brag fest, she thought it was cute. She enjoyed seeing the pictures and sharing a bit with women she hardly knows, but sees on a regular basis. Not so much anymore. She doesn't get the constant photo thing. She calls it baby photo-spam and it's driving her crazy. She says that whenever she sets foot in her gym - early, late or on time – she's now an honorary member of "the club," and is expected to see every update of every photo in every brag book. She tells me about running into a classmate at a local coffee house, where she "oohs and aahs" over photos she already "oohed and aahed" over. It also happened at the Post Office: "You didn't see this one yet, did you?" And even though she said she did, out came the not-so-new photo. She tells me that she's actually thinking about changing gyms, but hates the prospect of missing out on the class that apparently makes grandmas look like Golden Girls (Gone Wild). At this point, I interject again and tell her that these women are just sharing with her...that she should feel honored. But my normally very caring friend didn't "care" to listen to anything I said. She was frustrated. Eventually so was I. As she continued to vent, I decided that something else must be bothering her. This was atypical behavior for this friend. She adores children (yours, mine, everyone's) and always has. Finally, she mentions her youngest child, who has recently gone away to college. Ah ha! A clue. Now I understand. My friend has an empty nest. And it's much easier to complain about baby photo-spam than admit she's worried she might not have many more Kodak moments to share with her own son. I gently broach this subject. I tell her that she has graduations, weddings and grandbabies of her own to look forward to. What do you know? She tells me that I might be right. She sounds sad (but no longer mad) as she hangs up the phone. End of story? Not quite.

After this intense and mostly one-sided conversation, I think about my family. I've been rather lazy about taking pictures lately. I worry that precious Kodak moments have slipped away — undocumented. I search for favorite memories. I even try to recall the last words our son Patrick said before he climbed into his car to head back to school last month. I'm relieved to immediately see his smiling face telling me not to worry, that he will drive safe and will call every Sunday. I remember his mischievous grin as I start to cry (just a little). He tells me that I'm getting emotional in my old age. I pinch him and say “Watch it buddy! Who you calling old?” So you see, I did capture the moment. In my mind. In my internal, never needs film or batteries, built-in camera. I have a candid photo and a full color video...with Patrick's voice forever stored on my own personal audio track. I have the real deal. No need for a search and find button, or sorting through hundreds (or thousands) of photos and tapes. I can play it back at will...anywhere and everywhere. Whew! I stop worrying about taking enough photos in the past, yet I resolve to do better in the future (just in case my memory escapes me one day). I dig out my digital camera, replace the memory card and recharge the batteries. Now I'm ready. All I have to do is wait for that next precious Kodak moment.

But just a minute. What exactly am I waiting for? Conspiracy theory aside, my manic friend is right. These days, every moment is a Kodak moment; to live over and over again, one photo at a time. It's way too easy to point a finger at Madison Avenue (as I often do). And even though they are partly to blame, the "point" I want to make is balance. Not too many photos and not too few. Just enough to stoke our fires as they begin to wane in our golden years. Not so many that we can't focus on what's happening right in front of us, without the aide of a close-up lens.

Ah yes, the close-up. I have another friend who is rarely sans camera. I fear she is missing out on her "Wonder Years." Every spare moment (and some not so spare) are filled with taking photos of her family, printing them out, making scrap books with said photos, framing and hanging the photos, filling up new photo albums with the photos, labeling the photos, or mailing the photos to friends and family. Surely she's missed more than a few Kodak moments while documenting the everyday and ordinary...or while changing film or putting in new batteries. What ever happened to the days when a few photo sittings a year, combined with school pictures, and the requisite Santa and Easter Bunny photos were enough? This friend insists that it's her duty as a good parent to document everything in her children's lives. I disagree. I think it is our duty to experience everything and document what we can — without interfering with the experience. I remember trying to get a photo of the exact moment my son received his high school diploma. Sure, I got the shot. But I didn't really see him get the diploma. I don't have that memory, even though I was there. But I do have a photo. I have documentation. I don't have a memory, nor a photo of the little dance he did afterward. I was busy checking the flash. Next time, I'll just take before and after photos and enjoy the ceremony. Unfortunately, there won't be a next time. I missed out because I was buried behind the lens. So no, I don't think taking less photos means we're bad parents. I believe it provides more time to focus, without a lens, on our lives. I don't want my memories encapsulated in photo frames — still images with no substance. I want to remember what my family said...not just how they looked. I want to live my life, not just document it. I want to know what's going on outside the range of the camera lens. I want the wide angle view. I want the cake...not just the icing. No, I mean it. I really want cake. Preferably lemon.

A few days after my epiphany (and the demise of a huge lemon cake), my friend called again...the one who started this photo madness. I tell her about my balance theory, which is a far cry from her conspiracy theory. I also tell her that she was a little manic on this subject the other day. She agrees and apologizes. I'm happy to report that she’s doing much better with her empty nest syndrome. She's currently working on a special album of favorite family photos — with several blank pages in the back for new memories. Also, her son will be home soon for a quick visit. As for her weightlifting class, no worries. She's not about to give it up. After all, she prepaid for a year. Secretly, I think she aspires to be one of those Golden Girls (Gone Wild). Until then, she has a great plan to save her sanity and salvage her "with children" friendships. She's off to Sears for the "Mommy and Me" photo package. The proofs should be back in time for her next class. She can't wait to share her photogenic little "guy" with the girls. He's 10-months old and has thick black hair. He's walking already, he’s fully potty-trained and can already feed himself — unassisted. It's true. He's very smart...with personality plus. And she never has a problem getting him down for a nap — a cat nap that is. I have to admit, he's pretty darn cute. Talk about a bag of tricks...he's the cat's meow.

"You'll laugh so much your sides will ache. Your heart will go pitter pat. Watching Felix, the wonderful cat."

Dedicated to my self-proclaimed "lactose intolerant" friend. Just say "cheese" already!

© 2005 Teresa G. Franta