Number 4 is a  pretty good swimmer.

She’s got natural talent and a body that is conducive to the sport.

She also works her butt off.

She swims year round on the Y swim team.

In the summer, she also swims on the town’s rec team.

And this year, as a fifth grader, she swam for the middle school swim team.

Last night was the banquet for the middle school swim team.

At the banquet all the kids in each grade are recognized. First all the fifth graders, then all the sixth graders, then all the seventh graders, etc.

Once all the kids in each grade are announced, they give the parents time to take pictures of the group.

After that the kids who placed at championships are individually recognized and given their ribbons and medals.

After that, coach’s awards are given out, followed by awards for the top swimmer in each stroke.

Every time the kids received their awards, parents would go up and take their pictures.

There was a lot of picture taking going on.

A. Lot. Of. Picture. Taking.

I’m fine with that.

Take all the pictures you want.

This isn’t an anti-taking-pictures-of-your-kid post.

But I did not go up to take any of the group pictures of Number 4.

Between all the recognition and awards, she was called up seven times last night.

(Number 3 was also there. He is a great swimmer too, and he was recognized/awarded a lot. But he doesn’t love having his picture taken, so this wasn’t really an issue.)

Number 4 didn’t really notice when I didn’t come up to take a picture of all the fifth graders. She didn’t notice when I didn’t take pictures of the relays she was in that got medals or when all the kids who got medals for certain events got their pictures taken together.

But when she got the first individual award, for Top Female Backstroker, she noticed.

Because after she was given the award, she paused and waited for someone to take her picture.

And I wasn’t there.

Because after many years of little league and swim team and rec basketball and chorus concerts and swim meets and baseball games and dance recitals and after many, many post-season banquets, I have come to realize something.

I don’t need (or want) to take pictures of every single accomplishment my kids ever make.

Sorry. But I don’t.

Actually, I’m not sorry.

I mean, isn’t the trophy the documentation?

And it’s not just because she’s a good swimmer and she’s already received multiple awards.

It’s that I’m over documenting every single moment of every single activity of every single day for every single one of my kids.

I love a good picture.  Believe me. I do.

But you would have thought by the reaction of some of the parents that I was abusing or neglecting my child by not taking a picture of this moment.

I don’t need a picture of every chorus concert and band concert and swim meet and ribbon and award ceremony and…

Sometimes I just want to enjoy the moment and observe my kids having fun and being recognized for their accomplishments.

And I capture the moment with a different device.

You know…

My brain.

So anyway, after being stared down by dozens of eyes for not taking a picture of my kid getting her award when she was awarded the Most Valuable Female Swimmer,

I ran up and took a picture. Here’s the proof:

She was very happy and surprised to receive that award.

She’s worked hard for all of her accomplishments, and I’m very proud of her.

Like I am of all my kids.

But just because I don’t take a picture of it doesn’t mean it’s not important.

There are only so many pictures I need to have. And there are only so many I can keep track of.

I’m already like four years behind in the scrapbooking/photo albuming/photo booking department.

(Actually, scratch the scrapbooking. That shit’s never gonna happen).

When she wins a state championship or is valedictorian or makes Olympic trials or invents a cure for cancer, I will for sure take a picture of those moments.

I’ll also take pictures of less noteworthy accomplishments along the way.

But I’m not going to take pictures of all of them.

Not with a camera, anyway.

And maybe that’s not the way everyone else operates.

But it’s the way I do.

And that’s perfectly okay.