Family photos a movie of past selves

At my final job before becoming a mother 10 years ago, a co-worker named Willie gave me a wistful piece of advice. “Take lots of videos.” He went on to insist that every age of raising children is wonderful, and not to let anyone make me expect that teenagers have to be unpleasant. He reiterated how much we’d enjoy being able to watch our baby grow through the years on film.

Parenting advice from men always makes me smile, first because I expect they’re going a bit out of their comfort zone to “talk shop” with me — and secondly, what my girlfriends and I would work into an emotional dissertation with which we’re going to storm the Capitol — guys will reduce it to a manageable list. Tasks, really: 1. Take plenty of video. 2. Remember that teenagers are great, too. And 3. Hey, pregnant lady, you should take lots of videos.

I don’t have teenagers yet, but we dug out the old home movies recently, and it offered such a sweet visit with ourselves. I once read a theory from a respected psychotherapist that people who indulge in extramarital affairs aren’t so much chasing adventure or romance, but searching for a previous version of themselves. That’s a grave angle, but worth consideration. Our own history is often available for our edification — and it can serve a happy dose of comfort and unity.

There were the requisite compliments about hairlines and waistlines from our children, for which we can never quite repay their darling candor. The squinting recall of certain furniture, decor and locales.

Our 7-year-old daughter, characteristically morose, longed for the gingham dress she saw herself twirling in, as well as wishing to “go back to when we were little kids.” Our eldest daughter, 10, beamed as everyone watched her progress in martial arts. The squeaking baby in the era of movies we were watching is now approaching 5 years old, and she was mostly quiet as she took in the state of her family as she entered the world.

We all sighed at the sight of the scrappy (insane) terrier puppy who has been long since Craigslist-ed to a Chugiak family better suited to his vigilance.

I felt boosted by the sense of personal history, and wondered if people whose families have endured divorce, incarceration or death just can’t watch their movies for a long time. I felt acutely aware of my blessings and the way they’ve grown.

Our daughters squished together in their seats, visibly moved by the televised proof of civility and tenderness between them. I relished that part most of all. I felt softer toward my own failings, like maybe it’s no big deal that twice a year I need to lock the bathroom door for my morning shower. Give me 25 minutes without questions about Calvin & Hobbes or the legitimacy of triangle-shaped toast, please.

I felt all the more tender toward their questions and wobbly cuteness. I laughed at my husband’s antics in the kitchen, but later thought about his sacrifices. Heroic stuff like taking five kids to open swim, which he describes as near-nudity and public recreation, two things he finds appalling. Simply put, the movies allowed us to see how we’ve grown, for better or worse.

For the record — I’m so glad Willie gave me that list.

Tiffany Borges is a grateful wife and mother who writes from downtown Wasilla. She believes in good nail polish, print newspapers and landline telephones.