Photos and my son are an interesting combination.
Throughout his life, he has never really enjoyed having his photo taken. Most of the time I’ve had to tread very carefully if I wanted a picture of him. That’s been difficult because every year I make each of my children a photobook, which they receive on their birthday. It’s filled with memories from the previous year, a reminder of all the wonderful things they’ve experienced.
Trying to get enough photos of my son has always been a challenge. Choosing which ones to include is even harder because he doesn’t always want photos with other people in them.
Over time, I’ve learned to always ask his permission before taking a photo. Occasionally I’ll still try to sneak one in, but he always seems to catch me. And trust me you do not want to be told off by a PDA child.
It doesn’t matter whether he likes the photo or not. If he hasn’t agreed to it, he’ll insist that I delete it and then stand and watch while I do. There’s no negotiating, no distracting him. The photo has to go.
So these days, I rarely risk it. It’s like playing Russian roulette.
There is, however, one time when my son does like having his photo taken. When he’s asleep. I only have myself to blame for this one.
Years ago, when I started making his photobooks, I divided them into sections: Birthday, Christmas, Halloween, Holidays, Days Out… and Sleeping. I always included a page of photos of him peacefully asleep. I’d quietly creep into his room and take a few sweet pictures before heading to bed myself.
Somehow, and I’m still not entirely sure how, that tiny little tradition has grown into a huge ritual that I can no longer stop. A massive PDA bedtime ritual that has grown into something huge.
That’s often how things happen with my son. Something that seems completely insignificant slowly grows into something essential. Before you realise it, it’s become part of the routine, and missing it feels impossible.
Sometimes it happens so gradually that I don’t even notice until I turn to my husband and say…
“I’ve started something here.”
At first, my son would only occasionally ask as he climbed into bed,
“Can you take a picture of me?”
It wasn’t every night. It wasn’t even every week. Just every now and then when he remembered. I’d take the photo, and the next morning I’d show it to him. Fast forward a few years, and now it’s every single night. Without fail.
The very last thing he says before going to sleep is…
“Can you take a picture?”
Sometimes the house is silent and I think he’s drifted off, when suddenly he shouts it from his room as though he’s only just remembered or perhaps as though something inside him is reminding him that it has to be said.
Every morning he asks to see the photo, so there’s no chance of me forgetting. Occasionally he’ll forget to ask, but he never forgets that it exists. The other day he asked…
“Can I see the one from the 8th? And then the 9th… and then the 10th.”
He knew exactly how many he’d missed seeing. I now have hundreds and hundreds of photos of my son asleep. Most of them look almost identical. He’s usually in the same position, under the same bedding, in the same room. I’ve often thought about putting them all together into a time-lapse video one day. Watching him grow through nothing more than photographs of him sleeping would probably be quite special. Although before that happens, I’m fairly certain I’ll need to upgrade my Google Photos storage.
Like all of the rituals that develop in our house, I find myself wondering why this one matters so much. And I think I’ve found the answer.
I think that knowing, while he’s asleep, that I’m still doing something just for him brings him comfort. It reassures him that even when he’s no longer awake and in control, the people who love him are still there, quietly keeping their promise.
My son’s world revolves around autonomy and control. Every day he has to deal with demands that feel overwhelming, often needing certainty before he can relax. So perhaps this nightly photo isn’t really about the picture at all. Perhaps it’s about trust.
He asks me to do one small thing while he’s asleep, and he knows that I will. And maybe that certainty is what allows him to close his eyes, feel safe, and drift off to sleep. Invariably he is awake a couple of hours later but you know at least for those couple of hours he felt safe….
