I am not a scrapbooker, but I’ve always enjoyed my photo albums. Before my son was born, I spent hours making pretty notes below each photo. Now, I feel a sense of accomplishment when I get the photos into albums every few months, sans notes. I’m hoping if they are at least in chronological order, I will be able to retrace my steps and remember roughly when it happened and what was going on.

It took me a while to join the digital age. I had the film system down. But when my son was a newborn, I made the switch. After the initial adjustment period, I admitted that I loved digital. Every week, I would dress my son in a theme outfit and prop him up for a photo session.

Then, I’d e-mail a photo to everyone I knew, along with a first-person commentary from my son’s perspective. It was wildly popular with far away family and friends, but I’m pretty sure a few of those I didn’t know so well thought it was overkill. And I think my son was permanently scarred. I took so many pictures of him during his first year of life that the poor child now cringes whenever the camera comes out. Instead of discouraging me from taking his photo, this actually forces me to take twice as many. Now, I snap and snap away until I finally get one where he’s not hiding behind the furniture. The digital camera is a divine luxury for me and a torture device for my son.

I have a very difficult time erasing photos. I admit there might be some money wasted on printing multiple versions of nearly identical pictures. But I am quick to point out the subtle differences.

“I love the look of concentration on his face in this one. And here, look at how much his smile resembles my grandpa’s! And his goofy expression in this one is priceless!”

I figure, at this busy point in my life, my photo albums are my one and only hobby. If I want 10 pictures of my kid digging a hole in the backyard, leave me in peace. It was a really cool hole. And he’s a really cool kid. I like to think that someday, even as he joins the chorus in mocking me for my albums full of indistinguishable photos, he’ll secretly appreciate my efforts.

I am in trouble if I am ever blessed with more children. I have set an impossible precedent for myself. Already I struggle to move the printed pictures from the stack under my desk to the albums waiting to be filled. Add another kid or two, and I’ll be lucky if I can even find the camera under the child-rearing debris.

It is an old story. The first born has a beautiful baby book, a full album commemorating every milestone. The next has a baby book, but it’s only half filled out. The pictures are poked between the pages, out of order, but at least they are there. By the time you get to the third or fourth child, they are lucky to have any pictures of themselves at all.

I have made a vow not to let that happen. But I still only have one kid. I’m afraid my glory days in photography and organization may be behind me. The albums are nice, but the kids are better.

Sara Frederick lives and writes in Lewistown. An archive of The Sara Beth Times is available online at www.sarabethtimes.com.