It’s funny looking back at old photographs. As adults we snap our children ad-nauseum in order to hold the memories of special moments. It’s really more for us than them at this age. Sometimes they are even oblivious, like the photo I just took of my 3 month old daughter sucking her thumb in her sleep.
Now that I am an adult, I see value looking back at old photos of myself taken so carefully and lovingly by my parents. I am full of nostalgia and a sense of curiosity. I also feel protective over the little me. What did that little 6 year old think about my life? What were my favourite things? What did I hope to be when I grew up?
I remember the kindergarten where that photo was taken. I can recall a couple of other memories of that time. Other “memories” of that time are really stories that have been shared by my parents of how I was, how our lives were.
As my own children are very young, and my parents are getting on, I feel a stronger sense of wanting to know more about how I was as a child. I want to remember the stories, even if they are second-hand, so I might share them with my girls as they grow up. Because the fact is, I don’t remember a lot of them on my own. I also want to remember these tales for posterity sake, the meat and fat added to the skeleton I have, so far, of the family tree.
The reality is I cannot just see myself when I look at my own photo. I see so much more.
What do your old childhood photos conjure up for you?