There are two handwritten entries and one photo in my baby book. My aunt took the photo, not my parents. I was the third child, and I took this lack of documentation as a sign that my arrival wasn’t important. I mentioned the sole picture in my baby album to my mother the other day. Her response?

“I didn’t even know you had a baby book!”

This may be the only time that I exceeded her expectations.

As a teenager, I found this omission of detail insulting, but now that I have three children I completely understand. My oldest child has several baby albums logging every milestone, every adorable pose. This abruptly ended when she was about 4. That’s when her brother was born. He has two albums — once again tapering off at age four when his younger sister arrived. The youngest, in turn, only has about three-quarters of an album.

My husband was the last of nine, so it’s only natural that photographic evidence of his childhood is a bit sparse. His older sisters have done a great job of making copies of family events, but other than an unfortunate picture of Bill in a sister’s school uniform, he is rarely the primary focus. Early in our marriage, his mother proudly produced a picture of baby Bill. I never had the heart to tell her the photo was dated two years before he was born.

This mix-up also makes total sense to me now. My children all wore hand-me-downs and, for a while, participated in the same sports. I am constantly looking for clues in the background to identify which child is being featured. How old do Bill and I look? When did we take that vacation? What model of car is in the driveway? A few years ago, I separated old snapshots and memories into boxes for each child. Inevitably, while pouring through them, each kid would hold up a photo and announce, “That’s not me.”

I’d cover my tracks by announcing, “Of course, that’s not you. But are you really so self-centered that you don’t want pictures of your siblings?” It’s the classic parent move, diverting attention from the mistake while pouring on a little guilt. Works every time … well, almost every time.

High school graduation is incredibly stressful for photo-impaired parents. Yearbook baby pictures, slideshows, party displays. Each expectation seems to highlight this particular shortcoming. When the first deadline approached, my teenager saucily asked, “Do you have any baby pictures of me, or should I ask Nana, an aunt, or someone else’s parent?”

Time to evade and add guilt. “Really? What kind of question is that?” Honestly, it was a legitimate one. I tried to hide my fear as she approached her memento box. I made an exit plan to place clandestine phone calls to her Nana, aunts and friends in hopes of procuring some snapshots. Thankfully, subterfuge was unnecessary. We found a few prints, and they were not only taken by me, but they were actually usable.

After 26 years of parenting, photography should be a talent I’ve honed, but I haven’t. I still rarely take pictures. But now, I’m smart enough to defer to other moms and ask them to share.

I could claim that I want to enjoy each moment fully, not through a lens. I could claim that I’ve taken the photos but never printed them. I could claim that I forgot to bring a camera. But the truth is my skills are akin to those of a mafia hitman: I shoot people, and sometimes I cut their heads off.