Dizzy

Sometimes I look in my children's faces and see with perfect clarity their position and feelings in the moment. I see the happiness of an afternoon at the park, the simple thrill of riding the merry-go-round. I see the disgust of having to get out of a warm bed on a Monday morning, or the lip-licking determination of writing each and every spelling word without a mistake.

Other times it's trickier. Last night I sat across from my cursing, confused teenage son on the couch. I bored into his root beer-colored eyes trying to penetrate his anger. What lay beneath? I was seeking understanding of the 17-year-old, yes, but instead I was washed with memories of the 2-year-old so long ago who freely smiled and hugged and loved. And the picture in my mind's eye of the happy toddler blurred into the peach-fuzzed, broken-nose boy before me. They are one and the same, each my son.

Sometimes I like blurry photographs. (I like to make them on purpose!) I like the way they convey motion, or the split-second trap between what has already happened, and what may happen next. I like their artsy, impressionist painting quality -- the way imagination fills in the gaps, or how certain elements are discernible despite the blur, as with James's smile below:

There are times when I look into my children's faces and my perspective is distorted by expectation. Other times the expression in front of me is all the more vivid because I know the efforts a child took to put on a brave face.

I look at my children, sometimes, and see all at once their past and hopeful trajectories.

It makes my head spin and takes my breath away, and keeps me craning to see more.



Photos taken April 1, 2013. Elise, 11; James, 9: Samuel, 5