This kid cracks me up.

My drive home from Fremont yesterday afternoon* got me to thinking about the many, many photo ops that get away. These are the shots that I’m pretty sure would get me published in National Geographic or at least Nebraskaland if I could just get them right.

There are, of course, any number of reasons I don’t get the “perfect” shots (don’t have my camera with me at all, not the right lighting, don’t have the right lens, don’t know what setting is best to use, not tall enough to get the best angle, not fast enough and the moment has passed, etc., etc.), but I don’t mean this to be an excuse-filled musing. I take plenty of shots that I’m pretty proud of—and plenty more that are just okay. No, what I got to thinking about yesterday are the shots that either aren’t actually capturable or that do just get away.

On my drive home yesterday, I looked to my right and caught just a glimpse of what I imagine would have been a pretty amazing shot. The sun was coming through the corn at just the right angle, and it looked so beautiful. I kept looking for a place to pull over and try to catch it, but I would have had to back up to where I first saw it—never again was the corn both close enough to the road and tall enough to create just that effect. I don’t know even if I had stopped to try to get the shot if it would have turned out like I pictured it—and I guess that’s the point I’m trying to make: I have that photo in my mind but not in my camera.

Right now is actually a good example as well: I’m sitting in the green chair in Simon’s room, and he’s sprawled out on the bed deep in napland. The shadows on the wall above his bed are quite interesting (I’ve been looking at them for several minutes trying to figure out exactly what part of the curtains are making those shapes); the lighting is that of an overcast sky seeping in through thin fabric, and everything is kind of an afternoony blue. And the thing is that even if someone who knew exactly what she was doing (lighting, lens, settings, etc.) were here, I really don’t think she could get the photo just the way I am seeing it—the hubbub would wake up the Bub, for one thing, and the moment would be gone. And I’m sure that in a few hours or days I’ll forget this lovely moment too (but I’m here now!).

I always have a couple of ideas brewing as far as shots I’d like to get. My current obsession is to get a shot of the baseball field in the park across the street. But, of course, not just any shot, the shot I have in my head. I really don’t know if the light would ever hit the field in the way that I’m thinking, and who knows, if it does, it might be in December, when the quality of light is far different than a late summer evening. (And to be honest, I haven’t even ventured out at the time when I picture the light being just right, but I will eventually I’m sure.)

Memory can be a tricky thing, and sometimes it seems that the shots that get away become exaggerated in the coolness-that-might-have-been. Still, I think it is good to have a few (or several) in that the shots that get away somehow motivate me to go after the ones I might still get.

* I happen to think that Highway 77 between Lincoln and Fremont (where my parents and sister live) is one of the prettiest drives in Nebraska, especially in the summertime. I love the blues and greens of the sky and fields and often wish I could stop about every hundred yards or so to take a picture of the horizon. There’s been quite a bit of construction on the road this year, so we’ve been having to find alternate routes after Wahoo (or before Wahoo when we’re on the way home) to avoid waiting in line for the one-lane stretches. One of my favorite alternate routes involves an eleven-mile gravel road, and that’s the way I chose to come home yesterday.

Simon’s hair is the topic of much conversation with friends, family, and strangers alike. Although some subtly (and not so subtly) hint that he needs a haircut, most say (and I agree) it’s awesome—you gotta love those beautiful, crazy, precious curls.

Still, it was getting really, really long and, sadly, a little Donald Trump in the front. When it was wet, he also had quite the rattail, but, thankfully, his curls were tight enough to keep the back from being too Billy Ray Cyrus when it was dry. I’ve been thinking about giving him a trim for a while, but it took some time to work up the courage. The challenge was to keep the curls (above all, keep. the. curls.) while not creating a mullet.

Harder than it looks, folks. The only experience I have had with cutting hair is from when I was in high school—my sister wanted me to cut her long hair straight across the middle of her back. I literally took one snip before she flipped it up to inspect it and said, “No, we’re done.” Jason knows his way around a pair of clippers, but a scissors is another matter entirely. Simon was rightfully horrified by Jason’s first attempt at the front:

So we made it a joint effort.

Although at one point it was looking like a mullet might be inevitable, in the end I think the haircut turned out okay.

Yeah, there are a few stray flippies and random long hairs. And, yeah, it looks like it was cut by a couple of parents who had no idea whatsoever what they were doing. But I think I’m okay with that. What I’m having a harder time with is the fact that his new haircut makes him look like such a big kid.

We’re all sick. Simon decided he could help out by pulling the Kleenexes out of the box and handing them to me one by one. I didn’t stop him, mainly because I had no energy to follow through on saying “no.” Also, it kept him happy and busy and quiet. That’s about as exciting as it got around here today.

As Rebecca said, this meme has been making the rounds on Facebook. This would be a lot harder (maybe impossible) if it were fifteen favorite books, but, no, it’s just fifteen books that you can think of in fifteen minutes that stick with you. In that case, I could go on and on, but here’s my fifteen (in no particular order):

Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe
The Four Loves by C. S. Lewis
The Brothers K by David James Duncan
What Is the What by Dave Eggers
Dakota by Kathleen Norris
Bel Canto by Ann Patchett
Mine Eyes Have Seen the Glory by Randall Balmer
Mudhouse Sabbath by Lauren Winner
Reviving Ophelia by Mary Pipher
Fast Food Nation by Eric Schlosser
Gilead by Marilynne Robinson
Of Human Bondage by W. Somerset Maugham
Crossing to Safety by Wallace Stegner
A Prayer for Owen Meany by John Irving
Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott

And now I want to go back and read each of these (and several more that came to mind).

Simon didn’t start smiling until he was about twelve weeks old, and there were days in that long wait that I had myself convinced that my baby didn’t even like me (I read plenty of baby books in those days, enough to know that most babes start smiling at about six weeks, so with his six weeks of prematurity, that was right on time. But, of course, that did nothing for my irrational thoughts). These days, I have no lack of affection from my sweet boy.

But some days it’s just too much, and I think my heart is going to burst for the love of this child (we call this “shards”). Mornings are usually a good time to let Simon tool around while I try to get something done. This morning I had to write a couple of work-related e-mails (not that I don’t also surf blogs and stuff, it’s just that this time I really was working). Simon occupied himself by opening the cupboard doors and climbing on the dining room chairs and the piano bench. He also periodically brought me things, to each of which I said a distracted “Thanks, Bub” or “Uh-huh, thanks, Simon.” When I finally looked up to give him my full attention fifteen minutes later (because of his insistent signing of “More, more, more, please”), I found myself surrounded by two books (both illustrated by Richard Scarry, for what it’s worth), two DVDs, a wooden block, my cell phone, a Bed, Bath & Beyond coupon, a musical magnetic barn, Jason’s X-Box controller, a notebook, and a pen and its cap (separated). (And since I’ve been writing this blog entry, we’ve added another DVD, a little plastic chicken, a refrigerator magnet, two half-eaten crackers, and a ladle.) I was at first merely amused—well, and a little discouraged by the mess. But then I realized that this is one of the only concrete ways that a toddler can show his love—sharing his treasures, or at least those things that catch his interest. I do love being loved by this kid.

So now I’m off to find something that communicates love to him . . . these days that probably means time outside.