Candid Cameras?

I've often questioned my devotion as a mother. I do not scan Facebook for pictures of my children, and I have spent little time poring over the thousands of pictures posted each day by my youngest daughter's camp just so I might catch a glimpse of her face in one or two.

The Facebook issue is easier for me to justify. Ironically, it's much less about a lack of interest (though, truth be told, I am really not that interested in seeing pictures of my kids as they party with friends) than privacy. Difficult as it is to respect -- or even define -- privacy in a world in which everything has become so decidedly un-private, I cannot help but feel I am violating my kids' lives when I peer at their online photos uninvited. Even though, theoretically, I am invited, having been honored with friend requests by all three of them long ago. I think they knew all along I would not peek. I never looked through their things, even though I could. I never listened in on phone extensions, back in the dark ages when that was an option, even though I could. I never looked at their emails or read their texts, even though I could, and even though the temptation was sometimes overwhelming. I avoid their Facebook pictures like the plague, even though I can look all I want, without them being any the wiser.

More troubling to me, as a mom, is my failure over the years to sift through pages of thumbnail photos to spot my child. That, I admit, is pure laziness. Having attempted it a few times, back when camps first decided to post pages upon pages of pictures of enormously happy faces (propaganda, if you ask me), I tired quickly of the frustration of not spotting my own kid for days at a time. In recent years, I had a friend who would do the leg work -- letting me know when she had noticed a picture of my kid as she had carefully gone through the day's shoot looking for pictures of her own. And naturally, I always rushed to see it. Jeez, I'm lazy, not negligent!

This year, my youngest (my baby, but don't you dare tell her I called her that) is a CIT (counselor in training, which means you get to pay just a tad bit less for her to be away for a few weeks). She has access to her cell phone, and she is, officially, "staff." Her tee shirt says so. Which means I did not feel guilty about failing to send a few letters before she left so she'd get mail her first few days. I have sent only one brief card in a week, and, at least at first, I did not worry about the annual changing dynamic among a group of bitchy and clique-y and often cruel teenagers. She was to be in charge of a group of younger girls, not a member of the flock but a chick in an authoritative "Staff" tee shirt. Why worry? And I did not, even when I received her text, a few days into it, telling me her campers were simply "horrible people," call the camp in a fit of despair. I called her, momentarily concerned, but felt better when we both burst out laughing.  Hmm. Horrible people? A bunch of spoiled kids from suburbia crammed together in a wooden bunk and expected to tolerate the idiosyncrasies of others much like themselves? Twelve princesses suddenly demoted to ladies in waiting? Horrible? Shocking.

Hearing her voice the other day may have been reassuring but it somehow made me miss her more. So in the wee hours this morning, unable to sleep and left with nothing better to do (other than search for a pair of shoes I wanted on Zappos -- a task far less daunting than searching for your daughter in online camp photos), I logged on and went to the photo gallery. And, though I had to make my way through more than fifty pages of photos before spotting her, when I finally found her I smiled. I could barely see her face -- the picture was tiny and the group was large. But I am quite familiar with the cock of her head, the waves in her hair, the shape of her face, the tilt of her shoulders. I zoomed in as much as I could, and, though the image was still fuzzy, it was definitely my child. So much a part of me, so recognizable. The text complaints will continue to roll in, but I know she is fine, and I know she is coming home soon.

I will continue to risk the gates of "Bad Mommy Hell" and avoid looking at my children's Facebook pictures, no matter how intentionally public they are. But I think I will visit the camp photo gallery again tonight, just to see the familiar outline of my daughter's face. Just to know she is okay.