By Emeri B. Montgomery
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I can fit most of my childhood memories on a kitchen table. At least the ones I was able to save.
For years, my mama kept my trophies, plaques, certificates and other accomplishments on display in the living room of our house in Lake Charles, Louisiana. I moved around so much as an adult, but whenever I came home, there they were. Elementary school through college. My achievements were frozen in time.
There was no social media back then to post them on or brag about them. If you wanted to see my glory, you had to step into that panel-walled living room with the blue carpet and plastic runner.
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Then came the hurricanes.
Hurricane Rita hit southwest Louisiana in 2005, destroying many of the family photos stored in bins in our attic. Fifteen years later, Hurricanes Laura and Delta came. What Rita didn't take, those storms seemed determined to finish.
The loss still clings to me. A few memories survived on old VHS tapes from college, which I recently had digitized through iMemories. Now, when I want a glimpse of the young woman I used to be—not just in a photograph, but moving, talking, and living—I turn on Emeracious Live.
That’s why, when I became a mother, I started documenting everything. And I mean everything.
Somewhere along the way, I created my own reality show starring my daughter. I call it The Amaya Show. It has seasons, recurring characters, drama, comedy and one very opinionated star with increasingly strong feelings about the executive producer.
And every good show needs a villain. Ours is Tracey Lynn, our Shih Tzu and Amaya's nemesis, whose greatest offense is stealing too much of Nana's attention. Their ongoing rivalry has provided several seasons' worth of material.
Every night, I snuggle into bed, pick up my phone and watch my favorite show. There's baby Amaya trying avocado for the first time and deciding she is not a fan.
Then there's the infamous Kroger melodrama from Season 3. After tripping and falling on the sidewalk outside the store, Amaya delivered an impassioned retelling of the incident and vowed never to return because the "doggone Kroger” hurt her. She ended with a warning for the entire corporation: "I am watching you, Kroger." Somewhere, a grocery store executive should still be nervous.
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There's Season 4, when she goes rogue in dance class dressed as Wonder Woman, abandoning the choreography for her own jumps and dramatic turns.
There are karaoke performances, first days of school, Christmas mornings, and ordinary Tuesdays. And urgent matters like putting pants on Peppa Pig because, according to Amaya, "she needs them."
I recorded the milestones, but I also recorded the mundane. Especially the mundane. Because I know now those are the moments you don't realize you'll miss until they're gone. For a while, I shared some episodes of The Amaya Show on Facebook. My friends watched her grow up right along with me. I called them her Facebook aunties.
Then, when Amaya was 7, the talent rebelled. She told me I was invading her privacy. She didn't like people she didn't know seeing videos of her. She especially didn't like the idea of my friends watching something she did and laughing at it. I tried my defense. "But your Facebook aunties love you!"
Nope. She wasn't having it. At first, it stung. I wasn't trying to embarrass her. I was documenting the childhood I desperately wanted her to have forever. But she was right.
I may be the person behind the camera, but she's the person in front of it. Those are her funny moments. Her embarrassing moments. Her childhood. And as she gets older, she deserves a say in who gets to see them.
So, I started asking permission. Can I post this one? Sometimes she says yes. Sometimes she says no. Sometimes she says yes and later changes her mind. When she does, I delete it. No argument.
Because my daughter helped me understand something I hadn't separated before: preserving a memory and sharing a memory aren't the same thing. I don't have to stop recording The Amaya Show just because not every episode belongs on Facebook. In fact, the most important episodes don't.
She's not a reality star. She's just a kid whose mama has made her the star of her own life. So, I still take pictures. I still record the videos. Too many of them. My phone will keep complaining about storage, and I will keep pretending I don't see the warning. But most stay with us now—on my phone, backed up in the cloud or set to private on YouTube.
I've seen what wind and water can do to a family's history. I've also experienced the gift of finding an old VHS tape, pressing play decades later, and meeting the young woman I used to be again.
One day, I want Amaya to have that same gift. Maybe she’ll be grateful I documented so much of her childhood. Or she’ll ask why I have 47 videos of her singing the same song. Either way, they'll be hers.
Emeracious Live may not have many surviving episodes. But The Amaya Show has plenty.
It's still my favorite show. It's just been canceled on Facebook.
Emeri B. Montgomery is Newsweek's Director of Homepage Operations.
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