I’ve got approximately 14,000 photos on my phone. Give or take a few hundred blurry shots of the dog’s arse and accidental screenshots.
Videos? Maybe 200. Most are under 10 seconds. Most are shaky. Half cut off mid-sentence because I ran out of storage space at a critical moment.
And that’s a shame. Because now my eldest is at secondary school and my youngest isn’t far behind, I’m realising something uncomfortable. The photos are great. But they don’t capture what I really want to remember.
Photos freeze a moment. Videos capture personality. The way they spoke. How they laughed. Their little mannerisms that seemed so permanent at the time but have already vanished.
What I Actually Recorded
Let me be honest about what’s in my camera roll.
Birthday candles being blown out. Every single year. Same angle, same kitchen, slightly taller children. It’s like a time-lapse of aging but with more buttercream.
First day of school photos. Standing by the front door in oversized uniforms, holding signs I frantically made the night before. Useful for tracking growth spurts. Less useful for remembering what they were actually like at that age.
Christmas morning chaos. Ten seconds of wrapping paper carnage followed by me yelling “let me get a proper photo of you with it before you open everything!”
Sports days. Where I’m too far away to capture anything meaningful but close enough to hear myself shouting encouragement that probably embarrassed them.
Nativity plays. Filmed through a forest of other parents’ phones, with the audio dominated by someone’s toddler having a complete meltdown three rows back.
These aren’t bad videos. They’re just generic. They could be anyone’s kids. They don’t capture the specific, weird, wonderful things that made my children who they were at age four, or six, or eight.
What I Should Have Filmed
The everyday stuff. That’s what I miss most.
I wish I’d filmed breakfast conversations. The rambling stories about dreams they’d had. The intense debates about which dinosaur would win in a fight. The questions that came out of nowhere. “Mum, why do we have eyebrows?”
I wish I’d recorded bedtime routines. The specific way they said goodnight to their toys. The songs they insisted on. The negotiations about one more story, one more drink of water, one more wee even though they definitely don’t need one.
I wish I’d captured them playing. Not performing for the camera, just absorbed in whatever imaginary world they’d created. The elaborate rules they invented. The voices they did for different characters. The utter seriousness with which they took it all.
I wish I’d filmed them reading. Or trying to read. Sounding out words. Getting frustrated. Suddenly getting it. That moment when reading clicked and their whole face changed.
I wish I’d recorded more of their voices. Just talking. Explaining things. Telling me about their day. The mispronunciations that were adorable but I was certain I’d never forget. Spoiler: I forgot most of them.
I wish I’d filmed them doing normal things. Getting dressed. Brushing teeth. Making their own breakfast once they were old enough. The small milestones that don’t get celebrated but actually matter more than the big ones.
Why I Didn’t
Time, mostly. Or lack of it.
When you’re in the thick of parenting young children, you’re knackered. The idea of setting up a camera and filming ordinary moments feels like extra work. You’re just trying to get through the day without anyone having a meltdown in Tesco.
Self-consciousness too. I felt weird filming everyday stuff. Like I was one of those parents. The ones who document everything. Who treat their children like a social media project.
Storage was always an issue. My phone was perpetually full. Videos take up so much space. It was easier to just take a quick photo and move on.
And honestly? I didn’t think I’d care this much. I thought the memories would stick around. I thought I’d remember the details. I thought wrong.
The Videos That Actually Matter
I’ve got a handful of videos that I treasure. Proper treasure. The kind I watch when I’m feeling maudlin and want a good cry.
There’s one of my youngest at about three, explaining why slugs are actually good. It goes on for nearly two minutes. Her logic is questionable but her conviction is absolute. I can still hear exactly how she sounded. The slightly lispy ‘s’. The way she said “becaaaaause” when she was building up to her main point.
There’s another of both kids playing in the garden on a summer evening. I didn’t mean to record it. I set my phone down and forgot I’d pressed record. Five minutes of just them being together. No awareness of the camera. Just pure, unselfconscious play. It’s gold.
There’s a short clip of my eldest reading to her sister. She must have been seven, maybe eight. Taking it so seriously. Using different voices for different characters. Her sister gazing up at her like she was the most impressive person in the world. Which, at that moment, she absolutely was.
These weren’t planned. They weren’t special occasions. They’re just fragments of ordinary life. But they’re the ones I go back to.
What I’d Do Differently
If I could rewind and start again, I’d film more. Much more. Not for social media. Not to show anyone. Just for us.
I’d create video diaries. Once a month, maybe. Same questions every time. What’s your favourite thing right now? What do you want to be when you grow up? What makes you happy? Watching how their answers change over years would be fascinating.
I’d record them explaining things. Children have the most brilliant logic. The way they understand the world is so specific to their age. It disappears quickly. “Why does the moon follow us in the car?” “How do trees know when to grow leaves?” Their theories about how things work are often better than the real explanations.
I’d film them with their grandparents. Not posed. Just interacting. Playing games. Having conversations. Those relationships are so precious. Capturing how they are together, not just that they were together, would mean everything now.
I’d document their friendships. Kids’ friendships are intense and pure. Before everything gets complicated. I wish I had more footage of them with their best mates from primary school. Some of those friendships will last. Some won’t. Either way, I’d love to remember them.
I’d record family dinners. The chaos of everyone talking over each other. The jokes that only made sense to us. The completely bizarre tangents conversations would take. “How did we get from talking about what’s for pudding to debating whether snails have feelings?”
I’d film the mundane. Morning routines. Getting ready for bed. Weekend breakfasts. Car journeys. The stuff that felt repetitive and boring at the time but actually defined our family life.
The Power of Proper Storytelling
Here’s the thing about the video that I only really appreciated later. It’s not just about pressing the record. It’s about capturing a story.
The best videos I have aren’t the longest or the highest quality. They’re the ones that captured a moment with context. Where you can see what was happening and why it mattered.
That’s where video storytelling through film becomes something more than just recording. It’s about understanding what makes a moment meaningful and how to preserve that meaning.
Professional videographers get this instinctively. They know how to frame a shot. How to capture audio properly so you can actually hear what people are saying. How to edit footage so it tells a story rather than just existing as random clips.
But even without professional help, you can improve. Think about what you’re trying to capture. Not just what something looked like, but what it felt like. Who was there? What was being said. What made it matter.
Practical Stuff I Learned Too Late
Audio matters more than video quality. A shaky video with clear audio is infinitely better than perfect footage where you can’t hear anything. Get close. Reduce background noise. Make sure you can hear voices.
Landscape mode. I know, I know. But if you ever want to watch these on anything bigger than your phone, landscape works better. Save portraits for social media. Use landscape for memories.
Natural light beats artificial light every time. Film near windows. Outside when possible. Don’t rely on overhead lighting. It’s harsh and unflattering and makes everyone look knackered.
Let the camera run. Don’t film in tiny bursts. If you’re capturing something, give it time. The good stuff often happens after people forget they’re being recorded.
Back everything up. Immediately. Cloud storage, external hard drive, wherever. Phones get lost, broken, stolen. Don’t trust one copy of irreplaceable memories.
Film yourself too. You’re in the photos because someone else takes them. But who films you? Make sure you’re in some videos. Your kids will want to see and hear you, not just see everyone else.
Why This Matters Now
We’re the first generation with the technology to easily capture everything. Our parents had camcorders that were massive and awkward. Our grandparents had nothing.
We can record ordinary moments in high quality without thinking about it. But we don’t. Or at least, I didn’t do enough.
And now those ordinary moments are gone. My kids are three, at five, at seven. Those specific versions of them don’t exist anymore. They’ve grown and changed and become different people. Better people in many ways, but different.
I can look at photos and remember what they looked like. I can’t remember exactly how they sounded. The specific cadence of their speech. They laugh when something properly tickles them. The way they said my name when they wanted something.
That’s what I miss. That’s what I wish I’d captured.
It’s Not Too Late
My kids aren’t small anymore. That ship has sailed. But they’re not grown either. There’s still time to document this stage properly.
Teenage years matter too. The conversations change. The interests become more complex. The humour gets sharper. The relationship between siblings evolves. All of that is worth capturing.
And for anyone with younger children still at home, please learn from my mistakes. Film more than you think you need to. Film the boring stuff. The everyday stuff. The stuff that feels too ordinary to bother with.
It won’t feel ordinary in ten years. It’ll feel priceless.
Starting Small
You don’t need fancy equipment. Your phone is fine. You don’t need editing skills. Raw footage is perfectly good.
You just need to actually do it. Consistently. Not for Instagram. Not for other people. For you. For your family. For your future self who will be pathetically grateful.
Pick one thing to start with. Monthly video interviews. Weekly dinner table recordings. Bedtime stories. Whatever feels manageable. Make it a routine. Stick with it.
Save everything properly. Organise it somehow. Date folders are simple and effective. Don’t let it pile up in your camera roll waiting to be sorted. That way lies 14,000 unsorted photos and guilt.
Watch old videos sometimes. Make it a thing. “Remember when you were little” sessions. Kids love seeing themselves at younger ages. It helps them understand they’ve grown and changed. Plus, it’s genuinely funny hearing their little voices and seeing their questionable fashion choices.
The Videos My Kids Will Watch
Someday, probably when they have children of their own, my kids will want to see what they were like as children. I really like it. Not the posed photos. Not the best behaviour. Just them being themselves.
I can give them some of that. Not as much as I wish I could. But some.
The videos where they’re explaining something with complete confidence despite being completely wrong. The ones where they’re playing with each other. The bedtime stories. The birthday mornings. The ordinary evenings.
It’s not a comprehensive record of their childhood. There are gaps. Big ones. But it’s something. It’s more than nothing.
And that’s what matters. You can’t capture everything. But you can capture something. More than you think you need. Because you’ll never regret having too much footage of your children when they were young.
You’ll only regret not having more.
So film them. Today. Right now. Not doing anything special. Just being themselves. Being your kids. In your home. Living your life together.
You won’t regret it.