There’s a picture of my dad and me, with me being less than three and my dad being young enough to have all of his hair. I’m young enough that there’s a 50-50 chance that I cried once that day. And my dad was probably stressed about something to do with time or money. Who knew what my mom, the likely photographer, was up to? She was probably worrying about time and money too.
But looking at the photo, my dad with his arm around me as I sit on his lap, we’re not even ourselves; we’re the platonic ideal of a child and parent. We could be anyone who is happy to be three and happy to have a three year-old.
And it’s not like I’m unhappy to be 27 and my dad is unhappy to have a 27 year-old. But I don’t think a recent photo of us would look like an advertisement for being a kid or becoming a parent. I guess things seem simpler in the photos you can’t remember posing for.