The only thing that can clear a room faster than someone yelling "fire" is a mom waving a handful of freshly developed photographs. All General MacArthur needed to stop advancing enemy troops during World War II was to place a mother on the front-line armed with 14 sets of newly developed slides and a projector.

Since the first day my children were born, I loved recording every moment on film. "So what," I said to my husband, "if our son thinks my name is 'cheese' and can't look me straight in the eye without squinting. I am creating memories," I paused, "and gathering evidence for their years in psychotherapy."

When I started sharing my memories with dinner guests, the mail carrier, trick-or-treaters and anyone else who came within 15 feet of my front door, my house became quieter than a ghost town. Solicitors, while passing my driveway, would break into a sprint and pretend they were on their daily jog. Even religious missionaries would shout their doctrine through a bullhorn from the car.

"Why don't Bob and Betty come over anymore?" I asked my husband one day while barbecuing dinner and feeling lonely.

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