I do declare … a kindergartner.
That’s what my daughter is now. She graduated from Memorial Presbyterian Day School, a wonderful place where she learned amazing things, including how to turn washable paints into permanent ink stains.
It was a terrific little ceremony the other night, filled with merriment, songs by children (some whose voices could carve names into glass) and diplomas for little tikes in blue caps and flowing gowns. Precious.
And an emotional night, to be sure … by everyone … who wasn’t trying to photograph it. That’s always the way it is.
One mom passed over a box of tissue. “You’re going to need it,” she said.
“No I’m not,” I thought to myself. “I’m on photo duty — father camera unit No. 1. I’m barely going to know what’s happening.”
And that’s the truth, isn’t it? When it comes to big events, we get so caught up in “capturing” the moments that we miss the actual ones right in front of our faces. Because it’s not right in front of our faces. The camera’s in front of our faces!
We’re so desperately trying to make sure we don’t miss a key moment that we miss ALL the moments.
It’s kind of sad what the camera does to us. I’ve often thought about becoming a sketch artist like the ones in court cases. Then I could at least watch the important scenes through my own two eyes, not through a digital display or viewfinder.
I spent much of the evening like a paparazzi, my camera held up high over the heads of those in front of me while I hoped — no, desperately prayed — that I might capture someone … anyone! … who looked like my daughter.
“I swear, that’s her!” I pictured arguing later.
“No,” I would be rebuked. “THAT is the janitor, and THAT is a blurry garbage can!”
Ooops.
Isn’t it stressful? The worst part of any important occasion? The pressure to catch those priceless, unforgettable moments? Never mind that you’re somewhere that resembles a rodeo taking place in Grand Central Station at rush hour … during an earthquake. You have to get that photo!
You’re bobbing and weaving the whole time. Diving to the floor like you’re sliding into home plate. Poking around between people’s legs, which they don’t appreciate or understand one bit. And just when you think have that perfect photo — with a smile, no less — someone moves his or her head.
You fight and you kick and you scratch.
“Lady, you don’t understand,” you cry in the middle of a tussle for perfect real estate. “If I don’t get this shot, I’m out on the street … again!”
They usually move. They do understand. Or at least need to go make sure their husbands are also up there in the tussle. “Harold, get over here right now and start acting like this jackass!”
Snap, snap, snap.
All would have been better if I just got those front row seats like I was told. They were in my grasp. I had made it not only on time, but early. So early that no one else was there and the front row was still open. But because I’m missing two key brain cells, and because some teachers looked over at me, I cowered, shut the door and did my multiplication tables. By the time I gathered the courage for another try, the front row seats were gone and we were third row material.
You can’t shoot pig snot from the third row!
So I have shots of ghostly blurs, the backs of people’s heads and a little girl who may or may not be my daughter. But I do have the memories. Yes, the memories of being paparazzi for one night, and all the bruises and scratches to prove it.