These pictures are kind of a gross, unfair violation of my kid's personal space. (Just these? Snerk.) I mean, really, what kind of parent takes pictures -- FLASH pictures, no less -- of their three-and-three-quarters-year-old in the middle of the night like this? (Well, it's 10:00 -- middle of the night to her, anyway.)
A bad parent, that's what kind. And a bad photographer, too. Yes, yes, I already know -- these are TERRIBLE pictures. Just wretched. The wrong things are in focus, it isn't framed well, the lighting is godawful. All of it is just wrong. But I had a revelation last night, one that I found it urgently important to document.
Other kids have security blankets, but mine has security books. Every night, when I tuck her into bed, she asks for a book or two to cuddle up with. Last night it was A Crazy Day at the Critter Cafe and Tea for Ruby. When I go back up to check on her before I go to sleep, 95% of the time her light is on and she has fallen asleep, the book still open or right next to her face, with other books strewn about the bed among the random stuffed animals and Pillow Pets.
And it occurred to me: what I was seeing wasn't just my daughter. I was also seeing myself. This must be what my husband sees when he gets home from work these days, when I've read myself to sleep and end up passed out diagonally across the bed with the bedside lamp still on and the pages of my latest Terry Pratchett damp with drool.
What is that they say? About the apple not falling far from the tree?