When you hand your camera over to your almost-eleven-year-old you are handing over your heart.
Your insecurities.
Your love.
You are handing him the reigns in this crazy world, to capture laughter and joy, and a tea party complete with the Nutcracker soundtrack because your almost-four-year-old begs for it.
You are finally in the picture, instead of always being the one to make the picture.
And after a bit you even forget he is shooting, until one cold November morning a few days later, you look through the images and your breath, catches.
Because he's actually found joy in a world that feels scary and sad and overwhelming. He's documented a morning in your life, regardless of shower or makeup or flattering angles.
And you thank him, and you squeeze him, because your tattered, anxiety-ridden-over-the-state-of-the-world heart is scared. You needed to be reminded of the beauty. Of the gift, of another day as their mother.
The gift of another day to wear the warm sweater and Uggs, to make them lunch, to enjoy their smallness. To have tea, and speak in a British accent, and laugh deep belly laughs.
You forget for a while about the worries that plague you. You simply find thanks.
Thanks.
Thanks.
Thanks.
