Smile for the Camera

The wild days of parenting negligence and apathy are over. Pixie is three and I'm pretty sure some adults have memories from that age. The pressure is on for me to perform. I used to be able to wave off letting her cry in her room for hours or laying on the couch eating potato chips while she begged me to read her books. She'll never remember this anyway, I'd tell myself. My husband is always reminding me that babies have the memories of goldfish. But soon after her third birthday, an ominous thought has haunted me. Anything I say or do can and will be held against me in the Court of Parenting.

I took Pixie out yesterday to try her new tricycle. These are the moments that childhood is supposedly about. Watching her figure out how to pedal, offering encouraging shouts as she wobbles down the sidewalk - but I couldn't enjoy it like I should have. I felt like there was a camera guy following me down the sidewalk recording my every movement. Waiting for that one gesture of impatience. That one moment when I looked at my watch. Waiting to capture that one moment that would mar my child's eternal perception of her childhood.

I know, I know, it's a ridiculous thing to worry about, but nevertheless, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being watched. So I took extra care to smile grandly. I tidied my hair and patted Pixie's shoulder with love. Surely, the camera guy was getting this. Hopefully Pixie's future memories of me would remember the good as well as the bad. Would this be her first memory of me as her mother? Or would it be the moment that I lagged behind and she went spilling face first from her tricycle onto the pavement?

I hate the pressure of the camera. But there is no denying it - dress rehearsal is over and now I've got to face the lights. Pixie could remember anything. I want it to be perfect. Line please?