In grabbing my phone to take a quick picture of my daughter the other day, I noticed an odd number: 1,342. That’s the number of pictures currently clogging my iPhone. And yes, most of them are of my daughter.
I’d estimate I take at the bare minimum five pictures of her a day, sometimes just to send to her Mom who’s at work and missing her, other times because, well, I feel compelled to keep taking pictures.
And that got me thinking of my own childhood. When my daughter was born, I dug out a baby photo of myself to see if there was any resemblance. I knew pretty much where the baby photo was–a nice 60’s era black and white–because it’s in a box where all the other analog printed-on-paper images of my babyhood exist. And it hit me: I’m fairly certain I’ve managed in five months to take more pictures of my daughter than were taken of me throughout my entire, what? Thirteen years, maybe?
The existing photos of me as a baby? Five, maybe? I have them pretty much committed to memory. By the 70s, I guess the hassle and expense of snapshots made it easier, and the pictures of my brother and I seem to pick up, but still, I doubt even with all the Disney vacations and Christmas mornings factored in you’d be able to surpass 1,300.
At some point soon, I imagine I won’t be able to make calls on my phone anymore, as all of its memory will be used up on storing baby pictures. So if you’re trying to reach me, I hope you understand. In the meantime, hey, have I shown you a picture of my little girl?