This content originally appeared on DEV Community and was authored by Eli Sanderson
I never thought I’d be the kind of person who took pictures of everything my baby did. Before I became a parent, I used to laugh when people showed me twenty nearly identical photos of their kid doing something simple—like eating peas or staring at a lamp. I’d smile politely and pretend to understand.
Now I’m that person.
I became that person the moment I held my son for the first time. Something in me shifted. It didn’t happen gradually. It happened all at once. His fingers curled around mine, so tiny and warm, and suddenly every second felt important. Not in a dramatic way—just in a very quiet, very tender way. I wanted to remember everything, even the things that didn’t seem special.
But the funny part is: at first, I completely forgot about pictures.
The first week was a blur of diapers, soft cries, and trying to figure out if I was doing anything right. I held him, fed him, changed him, rocked him, stared at him, and tried not to panic. Every time he moved, I felt a mix of love and worry so strong it made my chest ache.
It wasn’t until about day eight that I realized I only had four photos of him. Four. One from the hospital. One from the car ride home. One where he yawned. And one where he poked himself in the cheek. They were fine photos, but they weren’t moments. Not really. They were just proof he existed.
So one morning, while my son slept swaddled like a tiny burrito, I picked up my phone and told myself, “I’m going to start paying attention today.”
I didn’t know what that meant at the time. Not really. But I stepped into the day with that quiet promise in my head.
The first picture I took that day was of his hand. Just his hand resting on my shirt while I held him. His fingers were curled in a loose shape, like he was dreaming of holding something. The sunlight came through the blinds and drew little lines across his skin. I kept staring at the photo afterward, surprised by how soft it looked.
That was it. That was the start.
After that, the pictures changed. They weren’t rushed anymore. They weren’t “take-this-before-he-moves” photos. They were little pauses. Tiny breaths. Small pieces of a day that would pass whether I noticed them or not.
I started taking pictures of the way he slept. Not just the cute sleeping positions, but the little ones—the way his bottom lip stuck out when he dreamed, the way his eyelashes rested on his cheeks like soft shadows, the way his hair curled on the side he slept on.
I took pictures of his feet. His tiny socks never stayed on, and his toes curled in the funniest ways. One picture caught his foot pressed against my arm while he stretched. I had never thought feet could make me emotional, but there I was, staring at a tiny foot and feeling something warm in my throat.
One morning, I held him close while rocking him, and his hand rested against my neck. I felt the warmth of it long after he fell back asleep. I took a picture of that too—not his whole face, just his hand and my shoulder. When I look at it now, I can still remember the weight of him.
But the best photos were the ones that happened when I wasn’t trying.
There was a day when he lifted his head for the first time during tummy time. He looked a little like a confused turtle. His eyes were huge. His forehead wrinkled. He wobbled, lifted again, wobbled again, then face-planted gently into the blanket. I didn’t take a picture of the face-plant (I was too busy making sure he was okay), but I took one of the moment right after—his expression somewhere between triumph and “Why did I do that?”
Then came the day he discovered his own hands.
If you’ve never watched a baby realize they have hands, it’s kind of magical. He saw them. Actually saw them. He stared. He wiggled his fingers. He looked shocked and delighted and confused all at once. I took pictures of the whole process—his eyebrows raised, his mouth opened in wonder, his small hands lit by morning sun.
Those pictures are still some of my favorites.
People kept telling me, “Don’t worry about taking pictures. Just be present.” And I understood what they meant, but taking pictures didn’t take me out of the moment. It brought me deeper into it. To take a picture, I had to notice things I never saw before. Tiny things. Fleeting things.
Like the way his hair tuft stuck up after naps.
Or the way he gripped my thumb tightly whenever he drank his bottle.
Or the way his eyes tracked the ceiling fan even though it wasn’t moving.
Or the way his whole body tensed before he sneezed.
Or the way he smiled in his sleep—those tiny, secret smiles.
I took pictures of all of it, not because I wanted to make a perfect photo album but because I didn’t want these small pieces of life to fade.
As the months went on, I learned to use my phone camera better. Nothing fancy—just better angles, better light, more patience. I took fewer rushed shots. More quiet ones. I found that the best pictures came when I didn’t force anything. When I let the moment be the moment.
There was a rainy afternoon when he sat in my lap and stared out the window. The raindrops streaked down the glass, and the city outside looked hazy and soft. I lifted the camera slowly and captured the side of his face—round cheek, tiny ear, the reflection of the window in his eyes. That photo still feels like a dream.
Then there was the evening we sat on the floor with a pile of toys. He grabbed a soft giraffe and tried to chew on its ear. I snapped a picture of him concentrating so hard his tongue stuck out. That’s when I realized babies don’t just chew things—they study them with their whole bodies.
One of the most meaningful pictures I ever took wasn’t cute at all. It was late, and he was having trouble settling. He cried hard, and I rocked him, humming softly. His face was red, his cheeks wet, his eyebrows scrunched. I took a picture—not to capture his sadness, but to remind myself that these moments mattered too. The hard nights. The tired days. The love that doesn’t stop just because everything feels heavy.
Looking at that picture later reminded me that parenting isn’t just the highlight reel—it’s the whole story.
I kept photographing the small things:
The way he held his bottle with both hands as if it weighed a hundred pounds.
The way his hair glowed orange in sunset light.
The way he kicked his feet when he saw me walk into the room.
The way he scrunched his nose when he tasted something new.
The way he fell asleep on my chest, breathing slow and warm.
Every picture felt like a tiny anchor in a sea of days that move faster than anyone tells you they will.
And then one day, something happened that I wasn’t ready for.
He crawled.
It was slow, clumsy, and full of determination. I felt my heart lift and break at the same time. I wanted to cheer. I wanted to cry. I wanted to freeze the moment so it wouldn’t slip away.
I took a picture of him lifting one knee, his face serious and focused. Then I put the camera down and let myself feel the moment fully. When I picked it up again, he was already across the room.
That’s what parenting is. Moments that change everything—and happen in the blink of an eye.
There was another moment when he stood while holding onto the couch. His legs shook. His fingers tightened. His face glowed with pride. I took a picture of his feet pressing into the carpet, and it made me realize how quickly he was growing.
Sometimes I scroll through the photos late at night—picture after picture of small, quiet moments I would’ve forgotten. The way his hand fit inside mine. The way his eyes searched my face. The way he laughed when I blew raspberries on his belly. All the tiny things that didn’t feel tiny at all.
One night, after a long day of teething and fussiness and me feeling stretched too thin, I stumbled onto a little story someone had posted that reminded me of gentleness. It helped calm my mind in a way I really needed. I saved it, and sometimes I come back to it.
It reminded me that paying attention is its own kind of love.
Parenting is messy. Hard. Beautiful. Exhausting. Tender. All at once. And taking pictures helped me hold onto the parts that made everything worth it.
Sometimes I think the photos aren’t really for the future at all. They’re for right now. They help me pause. They help me breathe. They help me see the magic hiding in ordinary moments.
Because the truth is, babies don’t stay tiny. Their fingers stretch. Their legs grow strong. Their faces change. Their voices take shape. And the world moves so quickly it’s easy to forget how much each day mattered.
So I keep taking pictures.
Not perfect ones. Not staged ones. Just honest ones.
Pictures of moments I don’t want to forget.
Moments that feel small until they’re gone.
Moments that make me feel like the luckiest person in the room.
Moments I’ll look back on someday and think, “Oh. This was it. This was everything.”
Parenting taught me that the small things are never really small. They’re the whole world in pieces.
And now, every time I pick up my camera, I feel grateful. Not for the photo itself, but for the chance to see the moment before it passes.
These little moments are the ones that stay.
And I’m glad I didn’t miss them.
This content originally appeared on DEV Community and was authored by Eli Sanderson