September has often been a month of turning points in my life.

Like a fading photograph with still many of its colors but a few missing details, I remember waiting for the bus to pick me up for my first day of kindergarten, 37 Septembers ago. Sporting a Boston Red Sox hat and Smurfs lunch box, a month and a half shy of turning 6, I faced my next adventure with a bit of trepidation.

Mum and I stood at the top of our long gravel driveway in Nobleboro, watching as that giant yellow-orange vehicle roared up the hill and screeched to a stop. I climbed enormous steps and scanned the sea of green seats before me. The school’s principal sat in one front seat, and two fellow kindergarteners sat together in the other.

Being that they were the only other kids on that vast empty bus, I asked to sit with them. One of them balked at a third person taking up seat space. The principal kindly but firmly instructed him to make room, and we all squeezed in together.

The rest of the day flew by, but it’s the turning point of getting on that bus — carried away from my mother, exiting my innocent pre-school life with zero responsibilities and worries and beginning a 17-year academic journey that would culminate with college graduation — that still sticks with me in that fading mental photograph.

September is a turning point for many of us, since it’s usually when we start a new school year. For me it’s also often the month when I’ve been inspired to write a self-explorative song that particularly resonates with me and others. I even wrote one called “September Song,” which recalls that summer before kindergarten.

September was the month my father died. And also, nearly one year to the day later, when my daughter Alaina was born. Certainly two key turning points.

It’s been a big month for Alaina. She turns 5, which I remember being a fun, exciting age when more lifelong memories are formed and comprehension of subjects like reading and math expands.

On that note, Alaina herself started kindergarten this month — not only a critical rite of passage for her, but also for my wife Lauren and me. Somehow, we kept that little wrinkly blob — which has grown into the spirited, cheerful and insightful cherub she is now — alive and mostly out of trouble all these years.

I was chatting with a columnist last week about his two daughters, who are nearly grown up and have excelled in school. I told him about Alaina starting kindergarten, and said I wish the same success for her.

He advised me, as have many other longtime parents, to cherish those times. Kids grow up fast, become teenagers too soon, are out of the house and onto their own life’s journey before you know it.

Being a bit over sentimental and somewhat of a documentarian myself, I’ve taken countless videos and photos of Alaina, literally from the moment she was born. As she’s grown each year — Lauren and I liken it to getting a newer version, like Alaina 2.0, 3.0, etc. — I’ve tried to capture every precious permutation.

Lauren encourages me sometimes to put the camera down and witness these moments with just my eyes, instead of through the lens. She’s right, but I keep thinking, “if I don’t get this, I’ll forget about it.”

Seriously, if you asked me five things that happened in 2018 I might draw a blank. But I can show you about 1,000 videos and photos I took from that year.

Still, I can’t capture it all. Alaina will sometimes do or say something that I have to get on camera, and I fumble with my phone to record it in time, just barely missing it.

Or, seconds after I finish recording something she’ll do something that makes me dig back into my pocket for my phone again.

Remember to live in the moment, Alex.

One of my favorite off-camera moments was from when Alaina was 2 and deeply engrossed in watching something like “Peppa Pig” on Lauren’s phone. Bedtime was fast approaching, and when Alaina refused to hand over the phone I was forced to grab it from her.

Alaina wasn’t pleased. “Why did you did that?!?,” she screamed in my face.

I had to maintain a firm resolve. You can’t let your kid be screaming in your face.

But I let myself laugh about it later. “Why did I did that?” She laughs at the story now, too.

Someday she’ll speak perfect English, and I’ll be proud of her and at the same time miss her childlike syntax.

“I not!,” when she didn’t want to do something. “Please can you play with me,” when she wanted me to sit down and act out scenes with her princess and superhero figures.

She went from being that baby blob to first lifting her head. From rolling over, to crawling. To taking those first stumbling steps, to racing around the house, giggling feverishly as her daddy, the “hug monster,” chased her around.

From communicating with just coughs and blown raspberries, to having fruitful conversations that make me wonder if she’s 4 going on 15.

From escaping her crib, to stepping up to that giant yellow-orange vehicle for the time and climbing its enormous steps. Plopping into the same seat that I did. Being carried off on her own academic journey, her next chapter, as Lauren, Mum and I looked on.

Yes, I looked with my eyes, but I admit I looked through the lens a lot that day, too. These moments are fleeting, and someday when she’s that grownup who doesn’t have time for parents — cue Harry Chapin and “Cat’s in the Cradle” — I’ll rewatch those many videos I took, and refresh my failing memory.

Why did I did that? That’s why I did that.

Alex Lear of North Yarmouth is a news assistant at the Sun Journal, and prior to that a staff writer at various weekly newspapers around Maine. He can be reached at alear@sunjournal.com.

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