I didn’t get a picture.

I picked out a darling, bejeweled, dark red dress and a sparkly black sweater for her at the second hand store. I convinced her to wear the sash that came with it in her hair like a headband tied with a bow below her ponytail. Her baby sister was in an off-white ruffley dress with tiny blush pink roses sewn (and carefully safety-pinned, one of them) on, also with a matching headband. My dress was black; an off-white shiny scarf as a shawl brought the plain (nursing-friendly) dress up to level with my fanciest pearl earrings.

It’s Christmas! We must look spectacular to reflect the importance of the day. But I didn’t take a picture.

When we got home from church, Miryam immediately changed from her “itchy” dress into a snuggly cotton one, brand new from our favorite neighbor the day before. Daddy took Cecily, to change her diaper, and changed her into a comfy onesie and footed pants, too. And I was back in leggings and a nursing t-shirt as soon as I could get Luke safely situated on the potty, since he told me he needed to go just as I was buckling him into the car 10 minutes ago, and he now insisted that he needed my help.

As I was unzipping Miryam’s dress so she could change, it crossed my mind that she may never wear it again (due to the itchiness) and I’ll never ever have a picture of how sweet and beautiful it looked on her.

I remember how I never got a picture of Miryam on her first Easter, when she was a month or so old, because I didn’t think about it until it was too late (when she had a diaper blowout on her dress in the car seat).

I didn’t get pictures this week of kids in Christmas pajamas, of the cookie decorating, of the rosary-praying, of the Advent candle lighting, or the stockings hung nicely on the mantle, empty. Of the presents wrapped with sparkling bows under the lit tree before they were opened.

When I realized I’ve missed so many photo opportunities this season, I tensed up a bit. I had to physically take a breath. And remind myself that I’m not doing our Advent and our Christmas for my followers on Instagram.

(I don’t even use Instagram, but it’s the most concise metonymy for the “share everything instantly” and “look how great I’m doing, please ‘like’ this” culture.)

Baby Jesus knows we got dressed up for him.

Baby Jesus knows we lit our candles faithfully [almost] every night in anticipation of his birth.

Baby Jesus knows what I gave to my own babies and in what spirit I did so.

My kids saw with what care I wrapped their gifts. (And then swiftly and gleefully ripped them open.)

My kids are [hopefully] learning a habit of prayer from our nightly vigil.

My kids are [hopefully] learning reverence for God and “Jesus is the reason” by how we dressed nice and prioritized church on Christmas Day.

…and a few friends did see us in our nice clothes at church. I’m sure they also heard our repeated “face forward,” “listen” to the 4 year old, our power struggles with the 3 year old, and our attempts to quiet the moody, teething baby.

Jesus “lay in mean estate” as a newborn. It’s fitting for me to learn some humility during this season, too. By not visually sharing the pretty and fun ways we have been and still are celebrating, I won’t get the high from lots of likes. I won’t need to check Facebook again four more times to see who has commented. I might not remember, myself, exactly what we looked like as a family on this Christmas, in 10 or 15 years…but Jesus will. And it’s his birthday, anyway.