When they're young they are malleable, gleaming with pleasure at attention that flows toward them.  They are sweet and innocent and know of a certainty that they represent the hallowed future and the world in fact revolves around them.

And then there's that gradual transformation when suddenly they are far less willing to be seen as objects to be manipulated at someone else's will, not that it sheds any light on the fact that they are not, after all, the centre of the universe.  For that central role yet remains with them, somewhat intruded upon by a growing sense of puzzled insecurity, when they've reached the mid-teen years.

Try then to take photographs.  Make an effort to convince the reluctant teen who, despite wearing new clothing you've paid for, and insist you'd like to retain a record of the time, the place, the person, and you needn't wait to be rebuffed.  Photographs are forbidden.

Mind, the photos taken at spontaneous moments of great hilarity when a gaggle of girls are assembled and hooting and hollering in glee, and someone snaps them in sisterly communion, that is treasured one, with faces glowing and grimacing in the moment captured.  That's legitimate, it's one of their own.

Make do what those you have, when the child was yet a child, not hovering between childhood and an elusive maturity that will surely, some day arrive.