It is a sunny, breezy, uncharacteristically non-humid, Midwestern summer day. We've spent the afternoon exploring the county fair -- looking at crafts, listening to music, and petting horses. As we walk back to our car, my daughter slips her hand into mine. A strong breeze blows as the sun kisses our skin. My husband fumbles in an attempt to quickly snap a picture of this very moment.
There are many things about the mom in the picture that I don't necessarily like. In fact, I normally wouldn't even share a picture like this. But I'm so thankful my husband took the time to take it. Because someday, my husband and I won't be here, and my daughter may look at this very image in an attempt to remember us.
And you know what?
She won't comment on how thick my thighs are or how soft my stomach looks or the width of my hips. She won't remember what size jeans I wore. She won't care about how flabby my arms may be, and she surely won't be bothered by my double chin.
Instead, she will see a mom who is truly happy. Who smiles in her prescence and laughs loudly and without apology. A mom who wouldn't want to be anywhere but there, in that very moment, holding her hand as the breeze dances around them.
And she won't mind the blurriness -- not one bit. Instead, she will remember a dad fumbling for a phone because he loved her and her mom so much, he took the time to snap the picture.