Mommy Like A Rock Star, Part 6: You’re The Paparazzi

We’re on Day Six of the ten part series: “Mommy Like a Rock Star”.

To catch up, visit here.

Most days, I’m pretty happy the paparazzi’s not beating down my door to get a shot of me in some hot rollers, cooking up a delish bowl of organic spaghettios. But other days, when I look at the multitudes of images recording my children’s journey from the womb to (hopefully) independence, I realize I’m virtually non-existent in our own photo albums.

And I know I’m not alone. Moms always have another gig. We’re either behind the camera, or in the kitchen pulling things together during photographed events. Or, if we do come in range of a device that could record our image, we start shrieking, “Aghhhh! Put that away! You’d better not be taking pictures of me! My…” and the litany begins, my hair, my clothes, my face, my big old bahookie, whatevah. It’s always something that’s just not perfect enough to be recorded, to be entered into our children’s permanent record.

The truth is, we’re our own paparazzi. We’re the ones acting like each picture captured will be the equivalent of Britney driving with the baby in her lap. We’re our own worst critics.

In the immortal words of Liz Phair‘s genius song, “Perfect World“,
“I wanna be cool, tall, vulnerable and luscious…I would have it all if I’d only had this much…”

We always want something about us to be magically changed, and it would make all our other flaws fade into insignificance.

But see, here’s the thing. Most of us know, on some level, that we’re unlikely to sprout six inches after twenty. We know the odds of dropping thirty pounds in the next three weeks are slim to none, but we’re still holding out for supermodel status.

And the sad irony: when we look back at pictures from five, ten years ago, we think, “Man. I actually looked pretty good. And to think I thought I was…” fat, frizzy headed, buck toothed, insert whatever adjective you’re beating on yourself with this month.

Seriously, y’all. We need to spend at least some time in this life thinking we’re-

Just. Perfect.

Just right. This second, just how you are. So that if someone came up to you right now with a camera, you could look right in it with eyes wide open. Without nervously smoothing your hair, without making any excuses. Without sucking anything in or looking for your good side. Just letting the moment be the moment, and letting you be you in it.

Be the bada**. Own all of you, crossed eyes, childbearing hips and all. I guarantee you’ll be surprised by how much you wind up liking pictures of yourself. I also find that giving my kids a camera is an amazing tool. I’m not as self conscious with them as I am with most adults- I don’t feel the need to make faces, or try to open my eyes really wide (I’m a squincher). I can just look at them indulgently and be their mom- and let the camera capture that.

And then dive for my Iphone before it gets flushed, but that’s a whole nother story.

So here’s your homework:
1. Let someone take a bunch of pictures of you this week. Doesn’t have to be all at once, but create the opportunity, and don’t shy away from it.

2.Take that moment to live in your skin- really live in it- without running yourself up the flagpole.

3. Get the pictures in workable form- either on your computer or that filmy stuff if you’re old school- and really look at them. And as you look at them, don’t say anything mean, in your head or out loud. No “Oh, gosh, there’s that face I always make”, or “I really need to get my teeth whitened.”

Just absorb who you are in the photo, and realize you don’t have to be perfect. You don’t always have to look good. Sometimes, it’s enough to just be you and not be afraid to show it.

So, clearly we need some Ani. One of my favorite verses from “Not a Pretty Girl”:
I am not a pretty girl
that is not what I do
I ain’t no damsel in distess
and I don’t need to be rescued
so put me down punk
Maybe you’d prefer a maiden fair
Isn’t there a kitten stuck up a tree somewhere?

(NOTE: But I bet you’re kind of purty, too.)

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