The view from here

This weekend Hubs got his hands on my most prized possession, my camera.

We have two very different shooting styles and so it has been a treat to see our Easter activities through his eyes.

I shoot up-close, kids-only photos. And Hubs shoots with a more photo-journalistic approach.

I have been surprised to see myself in our photos.

Note to self: next year grab an Easter basket.
 My plastic-bag-for-cashed-Easter-eggs looks pretty ghetto.

Who the heck is that? Oh, me. 

Whose old lady hands are those? Oh, mine. 

Gotta admit, it gave me a bit of an existential pause. 

But, then again, that could be just the Nyquil talking. 

How the heck did I become the thirty-something mother of two? I'm still sort of a boob most of the time. 

Shouldn't I have my proverbial shi*t together by now? 

I feel like shouting it from the rooftops, lest someone get the wrong impression, "Hey! You there! I do not have it together!" 

How is it that I am running herd on my two little XYs when I can barely run herd on myself? 

One day last week I forgot to brush my teeth. 

I wear the same black yoga pants and hoodie every day. It's true - just ask Miss Kristen. 

I do not drink nearly enough water, nor do I eat enough vegetables. 

But these photos make it very clear that I am the mom, stumbling along behind, holding the ghetto bag of empty plastic eggs. Orchestrating a memory. Carrying on a tradition. 

How did that happen? Why does the photographic evidence feel like a splash of cold water? 

I feel as if at some point I should have been notified: 

"Dear Bad Mama, 

This letter serves as notice that you are the keeper of traditions. 

Do not forget to leave chewed up carrots lying around on Easter morning. 

You are the tooth fairy. You are the monster-eradicator. 

You are the answerer of questions. 

You are steering the ship for awhile, before the kiddos hop in their own boats

and dash off. 

Keep an eye on the horizon."