The first-year photos you’ll actually want

You will take thousands. In ten years you’ll look for about twelve. These are the ones worth making sure of.

Their hand around your finger

For scale. Nothing else shows how small they were.

The ordinary room

The changing mat, the chair you fed them in, the mess. You think you’ll remember the room. You won’t; you’ll move.

You, in the frame

The parent holding the camera is missing from the whole first year. Hand the phone to someone.

The same spot, every month

Same chair, same blanket, same toy beside them. The toy stays the same size.

In a grandparent’s arms

Get the hands in the shot. Old ones and new ones.

In the thing with ears

On the doorstep, on the way out. Awake, slightly outraged.

Then do one thing

Print twelve. Write the date and one line on the back of each. A phone holds forty thousand photos; a shoebox holds the year.