The Agony of Photos

It's that time of year again; time to make a calendar.  I dread it each year.

Why do it? you ask.  Good question.  I sort of stumbled upon the idea years ago and gave a calendar to each parent and grandparent in our family.  Everyone said they enjoyed it, and me not realizing that this is just what polite, loving parents say, decided to run with it.  Now, each and every Christmas they are given a calendar that bombards them with photos of our life throughout the year whether they like it or not.

This sounds nice.  You say to yourself.  What a lovely gift idea.  What causes this girl so much pain and agony? 

I'll tell you why.  I have to drink gallons upon gallons of water for days leading up to and following the making of our photo calendar and I still end up dehydrated with a pounding headache from all the sobbing.

I sit at the computer for hours, sorting through pictures and reliving the good, bad and ugly that is our life.  I look at pictures I forgot even existed and stumble across little gems like this:

Look at those cheeks.

And our cousin, Baby Kade.  Back when he was a baby. 

Don't get all indignant.  It's obviously empty and it's hilarious.  He loved the crunching sound of that can.

Soaking up the sunshine on a rare, warm-ish day last winter.

Back when he would hold still long enough to be carried around. 

Back when we could let him play in a pile of dirt and he would actually stay in one spot. 

And these are just the mild pictures.  I skimmed through as quickly as possible because I didn't want to start my cry-fest at 5 a.m.  Can you understand now why I sit at the computer and bawl like only a mother with raging hormones can?  Can you understand why my husband will undoubtedly walk into the house in the near future, see my blotchy face, swollen eyes and pile of used tissues and he'll slowly back out of the house because he suddenly 'forgot to go feed a few pastures'?

This is rough, I tell 'ya.  Rough.  And now I have two kiddos with pictures to sort through.  I couldn't even manage to open the files with John's pictures in them yet.  Perhaps my mom, a nurse, will take pity on me and hook me up to an i.v. if I ask her reallllllly nicely.  She will understand my plight.  Please excuse me while I go make a super-sweet phone call.