This morning I was looking at some photos posted on my Facebook feed. My heart melted at T1 and T2’s baby faces, chubby cheeks and tiny feet. Naturally, my moment of nostalgia and squishy-love was overrun by cries of, ‘Can I see?’ or, ‘Is that me?’
Showing the photos like a trophy to the chorus of offspring, I decided to move away in order to cherish the pics in the quiet and peace of my bedroom. I found more photos, this time taken at a holiday in Warrnambool, a beautiful town on the south-west coast of Victoria, about four hours’ drive away from Melbourne. Our Girl was probably about 1, the boys were 3 years old. We were meeting my parents there and renting a three-storey holiday home for us all to enjoy together.
Our holiday was in the off-season, not the height (or heat) of summer. It was probably around this time of year now that I think about it. Despite being autumn, we experienced a few pleasantly warm days and we headed to the beach with buckets and spades. Of course, Hubster and I forgot to pack hats for the kiddies (I’d like say it was because it was autumn but we forget on days that are 40°C, too).
Grandpa to the rescue. My poor Dad. Balding, fair skin, a number of skin cancer removals under his belt, handed over his hat for Our Girl, so that her precious little head didn’t catch the sun’s harmful rays. One of the photos shows her sitting on the sand, holding one of the boys’ spades, her tiny face shielded from the sun by Grandpa’s huge sun hat. What a good bloke.
And I realised anew, this is why we take photos. It’s not just the image we capture to cherish in years to come, although of course that’s a huge reason. But it’s the story behind the image. All that went into that moment, seconds prior to clicking the circle button on our phone’s camera.
Staring at my cherubic young baby girl and my twin pre-schoolers, tears slid down my cheeks when I remembered the wonderful time we had during that holiday. And now, I’m in search of more photos, more memories.