Why do we even take pictures? Why?

Have you seen the advertisement for this new pre-fab scrapbook from Hallmark? Let me first of all say that I have been not-so-enthused (unlike, apparently, every other suburban mother out there) about the scrapbook thing. Glueing down an average of 1.5 snapshots per page, those snapshots cut into the shape of a birdhouse, surrounded by $17 worth of special stickers, calligraphy and bumpy crap, just didn't appeal to me.

But back to the ad. It posits that if we will only buy this special scrapbook and send Dad out with the kids for the afternoon, we mothers will then be able--in a leisurely, apparently almost physically pleasurable manner, involving a hot beverage--to organize all of our photos in the manner that is agreed to be aesthetically pleasing by today's bourgeoisie.

Maybe your photos, babe. I have a stack--a pile--nay, a mountain of photos that have gone unorganized since 1996. There is an album 3/4 filled with pictures documenting--in nauseating detail--not-so-little-R.'s first nine months or so. There are some piles of snapshots with rubber bands around them and scraps of paper on top saying "Jan--Aug 1998." That project seems to have been undertaken sometime in 2000, which makes sense because it was about midway through the longest inter-baby period. Many, many unsorted snapshots, stuffed into the sideboard, sometimes resulting in bending. School portraits and class photos. Sports team photos and individual sports portraits. Studio portraits.

But today I have taken one small step, and it was not buying the special Hallmark scrapbook, much as I wanted to believe the commercial. I took everything (photos etc.) out of the small, right-hand side section of the sideboard. I took everything (silver platter, baby china, salt and pepper shakers, toast rack, Revere bowls) out of the big center section of the sideboard. And then I put it all back in the opposite place.

It may not sound like progress to you, but it is.