Lost & Found

(originally published in 2010)

Last October, on Friday the 13th no less, I lost virtually everything I own.

Following my divorce, I rented two storage units where I placed all of my belongings, items that had been acquired over a lifetime. In just one two-hour period they were gone, mistakenly auctioned off to a stranger to whom my life’s treasures would prove meaningless. A stranger with no forwarding address.

How could I replace my first Teddy bear? It was placed in my crib by my grandmother. Or the popsicle-stick pencil holder I made in first grade, the one my father kept on his desk at work? My Cub Scout uniform? I could perhaps get another copy of my high school yearbook, but not with signatures. Nor would there be a replacement for my grandfather’s toolbox, or the watch Dad gave me on my Bar Mitzvah.

But that’s the least of it.

I am the quintessential Virgo, who has spent his life cataloging the adventures of myself and those around me. When I became a parent at age 26, my need to record everything became even more pronounced. My ex-wife and I started early: As soon as we learned she was pregnant, we began poring over ratings of video cameras along with bassinets and changing tables. Even as the furniture gathered dust in the nursery waiting for the infant to arrive, the video camera was pressed into action. I filmed monthly belly profiles; shopping excursions for the baby were my favorite—there we were poking crib mattresses, walking through forests of high-chairs, pushing strollers up and down aisles in baby stores.

My son, Nathaniel, was “born” on Beta while my daughter Melanie’s entry into the world was captured on VHS, and I continued documenting their lives in video, photos, and scrapbooks. Whatever their roles in holiday recitals or sporting events, my role has been official recorder and archivist. You all know me: I am part of that little herd in the back of the auditorium, alternately beaming smiles from the side of the camera and glancing back into the viewfinder to keep my kids in frame.

My parents had a movie camera. Yet the assembled Super-8 reels from my childhood fit into one shoebox. Contrast this with cassettes from my first Betacam spilling out of boxes in my storage unit. Some are—were—labeled “First Steps,” “Eating Peas,” “First Haircut,” “Dancing with Grandpop Chuck,” “First Day of School,” “First Haircut,” “Montessori Graduation,” “Ice Skating,” and the like. In later years, they were simply dated. My fantasy for retirement involved learning how to use editing software to create coherent rolls from all that footage. Also, when my kids were born, there was no Internet; all the world has yet to really know my children.

Last December, just two months after losing the library of my children’s lives, I went to see a holiday performance of “The Nutcracker” in which my 18-year-old daughter Melanie was portraying the Snow Queen. This would be the seventh time I would see my daughter in “The Nutcracker.” Her first role was as a snowflake. Now, 3100 classes later, she was the star.

In the theatre lobby, it occurred to me that this was the first event where I didn’t bring my video camera—the one I no longer had. This thought was interrupted more than once by a few parents who approached me prior to the performance. Did I know how talented my daughter was? What professional ballet company has she chosen? Did she have an agent?

Melanie’s mother alerted me that our daughter would first appear from stage right. I watched as Melanie took the stage, in front of thousands of spectators, gliding effortlessly on point. I sat transfixed as she ended her 10-minute solo, center stage, her legs still fluttering as the curtain fell, slowly, to the applause of everyone. I found myself crying, deeply moved, telling everyone around me, “That’s my daughter!”

I could have kicked myself for not bringing a video camera. But the friend I was with suggested otherwise: that not filming the show was what allowed me to have the unadulterated joy of this experience. Freed from the demand to document what was happening, I could actually live it.

How could I ever replace all those so-called memories that were so foolishly lost with my storage items? But then I got to thinking. The most vivid memories that come to mind involving my two children are things that I was unable to record. Moments that arrived unexpectedly, like when I found my son sobbing on the sofa as a four-year old, watching the film Benji, tearfully explaining, “He doesn’t have anyone to love him.” No video captured it, but the memory is indelible. Recalling it still makes me catch my breath.

The elation I experienced at my daughter’s performance can only be equaled by the sorrow I felt from realizing I did not really know my own children, at least not like I thought I did. Many other such memories of my children surfaced, and they all had one thing in common: The most vivid ones were not archived.

Quantum physics posits that the essential nature of a phenomenon is changed by the act of measuring it, and I believe this idea has applications here. Our cameras come between us and what we document. How much of my children’s lives have I missed in my vain attempt to capture them for all time?

Yes, I have bought some albums and have been filling them with copies of photos I’d sent to my parents over the years. I also recently purchased a video camera with a tripod. There are so many important events coming up: my daughter’s graduation from UC Berkeley, her wedding, her first house. My 27-year-old son’s first child -- grandchildren! -- preschool performances, family trips, birthday parties. All these wonderful events will no doubt be digitally photographed, recorded in both audio and video, and uploaded to the web for all the world to see -- how much of it by me remains to be seen.

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