A Jen Too Many

Youngest Girl Child is outside on the swingset, intent on whatever game of make-believe she is playing. She waves her hand over her head, looking rather like she is trying to do some fly-fishing; then she will bring her elbows close to her side, hands in fists in front of her chest as her lips move rapidly. Her feet beat in some complicated rhythm against the ground under her and she twists the swing from side to side, making a series of Xs with the chains.

I am watching from the window over the kitchen sink, trying to record some video of her. The screen over the window mars my movie with moire patterns, though, and I don't think it will turn out. I turn over other possibilities, but this is the only option I can find that won't alert her to my observation. The instant she sees me with a camera, this moment will be lost, and all I will have are a series of coy smiles, flounces, and mugs.

When Oldest Girl Child was a baby I could never take a photo of her smiling. She would be all smiles and laughs - until I put the camera in front of my face. She would immediately lose the smile, her eyes growing big, concern flooding her features. "Where is Mommy?" her body language shouted. "Where has she gone?"

Necessity has taught me to be a master of stealth photography. But not today. Today I just have a messy jumble of screening and water spots.

Maybe if I use my phone? I could quietly open the back door and stand there with my phone casually in my hand ...