We’ve dubbed this particular door “the portrait door.”

In front of it, the girls stand for pictures, saying “cheese,” adorably posing for photographs that I’ll later send to my long-distance family, and, most importantly, to their dad at work.

My favorites are the candids. Yes, they’ve gone to the door intentionally, but it’s a sister laughing at another sister’s silly pose, or a spontaneous hug, or a real smile that crept into the series of fake ones before it, that always end up being the best.

We mark special occasions with pictures, too—I take images of birthdays, and new teeth, and first days of school, and last days of vacations. We mark nothing moments, the ones that are the most special to me—I capture with my iPhone snacks on our spontaneous trip to the zoo, or I snap a photo of the baby pointing at a family of wild turkeys that parade through our backyard.

I filter some, to obscure their little faces a bit, or to blur parts of the picture, so that I can feel better about sharing them online with strangers. I sometimes make one black and white, or I share a side-view of my child’s profile on my public Instagram, but the full-on, adorable smile on my private Facebook account.

I take these pictures for myself, and they serve as mini journal entries. They are reminders—bookmarks—for a thought that quickly came to me for an article, but I take this picture to mark the memory, rather than taking the time to lug out my pen and notebook, and jot it down in words.

I share these pictures of my children, these pieces of my heart, with others, and I see how so many people do the same. I understand now more than ever why some celebrities go so far out of their ways to protect their children from a camera lens, and also why they take control and share their own special photos, too.

We are careful, knowing of predators and perverts, but we also don’t want to live caged for the few people who spoil the world for the rest.

I’ve gotten messages from readers asking my opinions about sharing pictures of my kids with the world, or at least with the handful of people who will take the time to care. I respond directly about my caution, but I also tell firmly that my only solid opinion is to be most careful of attaching our own thoughts and beliefs onto everyone else’s actions and desires.

It’s intensely personal—this decision to take and share pictures of our kids. It’s wise and necessary to be cautious.

My own childhood was filled with pictures, but they were different. They were Polaroids nestled inside albums. They were slideshows presented only to other family members who were there and sitting on our sofa. Selfies with friends in high school often had closed eyes, since we had to wait for the film to develop. My parents had phones with cords attached to the wall, not devices that were always on-hand; ever-ready wherever we went.

Pictures have long been family treasures, but modern parenting abuts technology and personal choice each and every time that we choose to share our precious memories with others.

Yet my children are the most beautiful, naturally joyful parts of my life. They are reminders of what’s good; woven into hard days of mothering, or scary depictions on the news. They are easily the most wonderful creations I’ve ever been a part of making.

The post Instagram-Age Parenting Should Be Taken More Seriously. first appeared on Jennifer S. White.

Have you ever noticed that memories often have hazy, golden fogs around them, and that Instagram’s editing filters are often hazy or blurred?

I’ve noticed lately that we’re all over-using the haze, y’all.

And dreams, for me, are often cloaked in shifty, lazy, idyllic fogs as well.

I once dreamt of a child playing outside, a golden halo of opaque light surrounding her body; making her seem wondrous and perfect in the way that only a dream can.

Why do we remember life as if a dream?

We cling, often, to the best things that someone said, or to a best moment of connection, or to a thought that maybe things could have gone differently in a relationship if we allowed one word to remain unsaid, or said.

And then there are the memories—surrounded by a black haze—that spew the wrong word, or the spitted word, or the relationship’s problem over and over again.

These memories can replay mentally as well, but with nothing to offer the heart—and as little amount of reality infused from within.

Because memories are not real.

They are playthings.

I often dream in black and white—the color that does arise is important.

For instance, that little girl of my dream from several years ago was actually largely a black-and-white dream, and the golden halo surrounding her playing body was in color.

Ironically, memories, unlike dreams, are typically much more black and white—and certainly much more dichotomous than life.

I learned a long time ago that life is shades of grey.

Life isn’t “this is wrong” and “that brings joy,” but, instead, it’s typically an arch of waning and waxing of easy, relatively carefree days and periods of more intensity. Yet it’s these periods of intensity that can breed such an idealistic response.

We become infused with something extremely negative or extremely joyful—like marriage, death, a relationship difficulty, illness, work success—and we think that life is something more than an ebb and flow.

It’s when I remember this ebb and flow that I stay sane in these periods of temporary disarray.

Happiness is disturbing.

Happiness is something chaotic to the stream of what flows naturally through life.

While life should and can be something to behold with relative excitement and adoration, a state of constant happiness would not only mean a flat-line to this feeling in general, but, more, it’s as equally abnormal as a period of constant morbidity.

Because life is not meant to be surrounded by a golden halo.

Recently, I took photographs of my oldest daughter sitting at the hardwood table of her favorite eating spot, a place that offers bowls of real fresh fruit—like slightly smashed raspberries and cut-into-awkward-chunks pineapple—as well as truly homemade hummus and, sometimes, pita chips browned in the oven a touch too long.

Today, my daughter and I went there for the first time since I had her baby sister.

I anticipated a less than simple situation and prepared by telling the waitress we’d be having only the bowl of fruit—along with telling her that we miss our regular visitations and a healthy tip—and by paying the check, and making sure that my daughter—hand filled with crayons and bowed over a printed-but-as-of-yet-colorless place-mat—knew that this would be a short stay.

It went well.

Granted, we were there for 15 minutes.

But it went well.

She was, of course, ecstatic to be at her old stomping grounds, to have eaten a portion of a bowl of delicious fresh fruit and to know that life isn’t the same with a baby sister as it was before—but that we can still do beloved adventures.

That said, the picture that I chose to take and then post later on my Instagram account was much sweeter than the actual visit.

The actual visit involved wondering if my dress would be tattered and needing changed from the baby parading all over it, while I tried to hold her wriggly body in my lap.

The actual visit involved my daughter wanting to color for longer, and for me to color with her—like we used to—only it was made impossible by this sweetly squirming little sister.

The actual visit involved me looking gratefully at this baby as she took in scenery, while wishing I could even just pretend to spend as much attention on her “firsts;” on her newness.

This photograph did not look like our real encounter—much like life is not, thankfully, surrounded by a golden, hazy Instagram filter.

No, life is wondrous, and chaotic and awful and easy and plain.

Lately, I feel like the Tasmanian devil.

I feel like my kids and I pop into places and are a swirling ball of activity and then—just like that!—we’re gone.

We are energy and too little sleep and too much coffee—or not enough.

We are everything but an Instagram filter.

We are real life.

I inhale deeply through my nose, pause, and exhale out my mouth—I take a moment to hold, deeply within my tissues, my day.

My day was not preceded by enough sleep.

My day was a beautiful child looking at me—directly in the eyes—and smiling. My day was a baby’s proud face as she held herself steady on her own two feet, all by herself.

My day was, at times, surrounded by this perfectly coveted, glimmering mirage—mostly because I chose to see it that way, despite my lack of sleep.

My oldest daughter sits in front of the large picture window overlooking our side-yard as I hover over my keyboard writing this. She plays with my shoes, still in boxes from our move—we haven’t moved recently enough to excuse these boxes of shoes.

She looks beautiful. My mind will remember her this way and not the stress that I feel from needing to put away the rest of my shoes and clothes.

Because it’s important to remember that we are not paintings or pictures of perfection.

We are not brushstrokes or filters, or even the false remembrances of our own imaginations—we are more.

Our memories have golden, hazy smokescreens, not to disappoint reality or to trick us, but because it’s healthy and right to find the best out of life.

The problem arises when we compare real life to something synthetic; something grainy and outright dishonest instead of the crystalline focus that we actually live through, as we go through it.

It’s important to understand completely that real life was never perfect—that a picture on Instagram might be changed. More, it’s critical to understand that nothing is Photoshop-picturesque if we want to truly live a happy life, in real time.

We can do better than showing the world—and ourselves—only tiny snippets of something false; something we wrongly imagine to be the only aspect of ourselves worth sharing.

Photo: Anna/Flickr.

The post Why There Isn’t A “Happiness” Filter. first appeared on Jennifer S. White.

My husband said to me yesterday that it’s called Facebook and not Assbook—because everyone is putting their best faces forward.

Yet, here’s a “real-life” story:

I go to the zoo all the time with my two daughters. Together the three of us ride the carousel, eat snacks at a picnic table and ooo and aaah over animals (and sometimes ewww too).

On the carousel, for instance, I sling the baby and help my oldest child onto her seat of choice (usually the ladybug). Rarely—okay, never—do we get told niceties when the girls are behaving.

We get a small handful of “aren’t they cute” gazes, but, in general, not much attention. (No one, for example, comes up and high-fives me for trying to be a good mama—even though, frankly, that would be welcomed.)

Yesterday, however, I lost my cool a few times. I was physically tired (not that I’m making excuses), and my baby was unhappy (teething—she’s allowed excuses) and my oldest daughter was just in a “trying mom’s already limited patience” mode (or so it seemed). I got plenty of nasty glares. I’m not making up the handfuls of attention that my normally under-the-radar, currently under-the-weather threesome received.

On the carousel, there was a grandma and her granddaughter behind us. She commented, not unkindly, on how the baby wasn’t too happy being in her carrier instead of on a merry-go-round creature. (Normally she loves being eye level with her sister, but, yesterday, that woman was right—she was ready to go home.)

I said something back, along with a smile, “Yeah, it’s barely 11 in the morning and my patience is already used up.”

She awkwardly smiled and quickly looked away—back to fake smiling at her grandkid.

Now I’m not one for unnecessary drama, rudeness or even over-sharing. That said, sometimes people don’t know how to deal with someone being genuine and not fakey polite. (I guess I should have awkwardly laughed back at her—hahahaaa!—and quickly looked away myself after her initial commentary.)

It must be nice to see 30 seconds—or, generously, five minutes—of someone’s day and life and make a judgment.

Actually, yesterday made me a better person because it was a wonderful reminder to not make my own snap assessments of other parents and children when we’re out at the zoo on a better-mood day.

In 30 seconds we can’t see how someone slept that night—or that week, or that month.

We can’t see the postpartum depression beginning to lift, but still lingering, like a fog, or a skipped cup of coffee so the family could have an earlier start to the day.

We can’t see a lot, if we’re being honest.

I put this picture up on my Instagram and personal Facebook accounts over the holiday weekend:

It’s a pretty picture, right?

I took it as a commemoration of my baby’s first Independence Day.

My flow-y dress is feminine and sweet and I looked at her accidentally—naturally—when taking the image, because she was softly cooing at me. I liked this photograph better than all of the other versions, so I shared it.

What isn’t visible is that I smell like the outdoors. I smelled like grass and sweat.

I was playing outside with my girls and husband in this dress and I smelled, not like floral aromas coupled with the subtle scent of baby, but of nature and my own perspiration.

Because social media is not real.

Pictures are real, yes, and they convey an awful lot of authenticity in their own rights, but places like Instagram and Facebook are warehouses for what we want the world to see, not for what we don’t. This isn’t completely bad.

During my conversation with my husband about “Facebook versus Assbook,” he said people solely put up the good stuff. Now, I know we all have at least a couple of relatives or friends who don’t do this.

Instead, they inappropriately share personal dramas and spin their lives as miserable. Usually, I “unfollow” these people, if not outright “unfriend” them.

Because life is hard enough without being surrounded by people who only wish to see the negative.

I also posted this picture on my social media sites yesterday, after that frustrating day:

I took it in the zoo’s aquarium and captioned it this,

“Today sucked, but I saw this (at the zoo). I had a husband who supported me like crazy when I felt like I could fall apart from overwhelm. I ran a mile, at ease, to clear my head. (It was my first time running in a looooooong, loooooooong time—it felt great and I can’t believe I stopped at a mile.) I had my best full-wheel/backbend yoga practice since before having a baby. I ate the best meatloaf I’ve ever heard of (that husband again). I wrote more in a secret (ssssshhhhh!) book I’m working on. And I sat in the white rocker on my front porch, holding my oldest daughter while we looked at cars. Today, the baby laughed over and over, while repeating her word of the moment, “yeah,” and she ate well and has a good “pincher” grasp. You know what? Today had some really horrible moments—but some absolutely stellar ones too. Nighty, y’all.”

I think more than actually caring to put this out there for other people to see and read, I wanted to remind myself that the day had been a challenge, but that a plethora of beautiful moments had happened too.

Life is never all bad or all good. Never. Our attitudes can perhaps be all bad or all good, but life—no. It’s not that dichotomous.

Do I think we should all over-share regularly on Facebook or Instagram about our “real-life” days? No, not really. I’ll be the first to admit that I typically scroll right past a super-long, “self-indulgent” post, and I’m sure people could say the same about what I post from time to time.

So, no, this isn’t a call for social media shares to completely change, but it is a call for us not to forget that social media is not real life.

Let’s remember this especially when we see a mom at the zoo having one bad day—we didn’t see the other, three glorious days she brought her kids in a row, without problems.

Let’s remember this ourselves—we are not pictures of idyllic perfection. We are living, moving, breathing, feeling creatures and not those ideally posed on a merry-go-round for others to admire and enjoy.

Life is not picture perfect, even if we want it to be.

I posted this on my social media sites too; this image of me in the dress that I had worn over the holiday weekend.

I captioned it this:

“You know what we can’t experience through social media? How someone smells. Scent is so huge to me personally. Vivid memories from very early on can come back instantly through a smell. Does this dress look feminine and sweet? Because I smell like the outdoors. I smell like grass and sweat. I played outside with my kids in this dress and quickly threw it back on this morning. Can you see the faint image of my coffee cup? My house smells like freshly ground and brewed coffee in the morning. This world we create online for others to see is not real, on either end. Let’s not forget to get out there and play for real.”

And, as I sit here sipping that photographed coffee from that pink mug, in the dress that almost overwhelming emanates the aroma of too-tall grass, sprinkler runs, sunscreen, outdoor barbecue, gentle summer kisses, and sweat, I think what a world this would be if we all really did try to live and be the best versions of ourselves, while still allowing space for reality.

Photos: Author’s own.

The post It Ain’t Called A**book, Schweetie. first appeared on Jennifer S. White.

I began watching Sex and the City prequel The Carrie Diaries on Netflix during my sinus surgery—and I haven’t stopped. My husband put plex on our TV so I can watch new episodes (I don’t own cable and my television is. not. flat.)

I waited up until 10 pm for Downton Abbey…only to discover that it’s on at 9. (Yes, that’s waiting up for me. Hubby went to bed mad at me because I was “overly angry” about missing the show.)

After many years of enjoyment, I won’t be renewing my Yoga Journal subscription.

I’m an Elephant Journal member, and I’m still excited that they upped the reads from two to three per day, for non-members.

I’m drinking coffee out of Santa’s head…and I don’t give a damn.

I will never be able to spell occasionally correctly. Yep, I just had that fixed thanks to my handy, dandy computer.

It might be a lot too late, but I finally bought the Into the Wild soundtrack and I can’t stop listening to it. (And I think Chris McCandless was an idiot who went into the wild.)

My daughter’s favorite show is Mr. Rogers spin off Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood—and maybe only parents want to talk about their kids learning Spanish from Dora or weird, drug-induced monster creations, but this show is better than any other kids program I’ve ever seen, with the exception of the aforementioned Mr. Rogers.

Okay, I think that’s enough for now…but only because I can’t remember the one that made me start writing this in the first place.

P.S. Oh, and I’ll add that I joined Instagram—and I only have 8 followers. Yep, so there’s that.

P.P.S. I created the category “Monday Morning Dirty Secret Spill,” so I guess look for another edition of this next Monday!

P.P.P.S. I haven’t written post scripts in such a childish manner since, well, I was a child (passing notes in, probably, the fourth grade)—and I’m digging it.

Photo: Rennett Stowe/Flickr.

The post Monday Morning Dirty Secret Spill. first appeared on Jennifer S. White.