So it’s week three of the school term and my life is starting to take on a concerning and rather familiar theme. Chaos.  I have often referred to the general mayhem that we exist in as ‘happy chaos’, probably trying to gloss over the fact that I am hopelessly disorganised by making it sound like it’s fun. But actually, if I’m really honesty, it’s not fun, and the chaos is not happy but an altogether unhappy experience that I swore this year wouldn’t be the overriding feeling in our home and our lives.

In my simple new existence, there was just not going to be chaos. There was going to be smooth sailing from dawn until dusk and everywhere in between. I was going to be smiling serenely as I moved from my position at the stove, stirring wholesome goodness in pots of love and making early morning muffins, greeting neighbours as I walked the children (and various pets) calmly and early to school, playing endless hours of creative play dough with my girl, going about my shopping and cleaning whistling a happy tune under my breath and greeting my husband with delight and sweet shiny,faced children lined up when he arrived home to hang up his coat at the end of each day.

The trouble is, I hadn’t factored in that to make all the changes in our life, I would have to actually change the biggest thing of all, me. Completely. I am, by nature, disorganised and impulsive, hopeless at cleaning up after myself or keeping a schedule. If I were to record the most common things my husband says to me I feel sure the top two would be, ‘have you finished with that?’ and ‘slow down’. I move from one thing to the next with lightning speed, no time to put things away when I’m finished with them, there are new tasks to be tackled. And so, it is no small wonder, my children are largely the same and my poor tidy, schedule keeping perfectionist husband spends a large part of his home life in despair (the other part I hope, in joyful delight at the good bits). I know all this, yet am still surprised when after a day of cleaning and tidying, the house returns to its ‘just been ransacked’ state within a matter of moments and I feel dejected and frustrated and yell at everyone, demanding that they start picking up after themselves.

I tried scheduling chores for the boys and regular ‘spot tidying’ during the day last year but it didn’t last longer than a week. I have reminders in my phone to prompt me to look at my diary, so prone am I to forgetting appointments, although I’m actually still using my 2012 diary so it’s not much help at the moment.  I haven’t quite got around to getting a 2013 one, it’s only mid February after all, and they’ll all be on sale soon for sure. Our family planner sits lonely and unfilled in on the back of the kitchen door with notes for school activities pinned hopefully to January. I live in fear of being the mother who forgets to send money along with her child to the annual Mother’s Day stall and kind friends have been known to (regularly) text me on the morning of casual day or excursions just to remind me.

I don’t want to be that person anymore. Just like I don’t want the crazy in our lives and have made massive adjustments to create a simpler existence, I don’t want the chaos in me. I’m happy to be a little crazy now and then, but I need for our home to be peaceful and organised, for me to be peaceful and organised. For me to reach my small, modest goals each day (like using the gym membership I’ve had for seven years for more than stopping by the cafe for a take away coffee) or taking teddy for an early morning walk each day which I scheduled last year and did once.

I have my moments of brilliance. It’s just that they are very short lived. I start with so much enthusiasm and determination and then it just kind of evaporates after the initial burst. I think perhaps, I need to list the most important changes I want to make, turn them into small achievable goals each day and give myself time to change the habits of a lifetime. I know that order creates freedom. I know to give myself the time to do things I want, I need the structure in place to deal with the things I need to do first.

I want my friends and family to stop expecting me to forget, to be late, to not be able to rely on me. I want them to suddenly realise one day that I turned up every time, that they didn’t have to step over a million toys and piles of laundry when they came to my house, that I wasn’t frazzled, wasn’t rushing, that I was peaceful, happy, calm, organised.  I want to open my diary every morning and not be surprised and not have that sickening shot of adrenaline hit because I forgot someone’s birthday the day before .

On Saturday, I saw an elderly lady being walked into a nursing home, bags and boxes of belongings coming with her. It made my heart break a little bit and I thought about her all morning. Was she happy? Was she satisfied by the life she was leaving behind. Was she at peace entering this final phase? Did she have enough memories to sustain her? Had she lived her life?  I want to be everything I can be, the best version of me, and give myself, and our little family, a real chance to be and have this beautiful life we trying to create.  When I enter old age, I want to look back and say ‘Wow, I really gave it everything I had’ and smile. I don’t want regret. I don’t want to be held back by my habitual lack of organisation. I can change. One small step, one tiny achievable goal at a time. Every single day.

Everything I want for me, for us, depends on me finally, really, permanently making these changes. The biggest obstacle to our dream life is me and I don’t want to be in the way anymore. I have David Bowie on repeat in my mind and I know I can do this.

It’s time…

(any tips gratefully received

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Last year, just before my 40^th birthday, I attended a photography conference in the Hunter Valley.

On the first night, I happened to hear the very fabulous Israel Smith speak about the concept of doing ‘enough’ and I’m not sure I really heard anything else for the following three days. His words were ringing far too loudly in my ears for me to take in much of anything else.

He had sat down with his wife and they had mapped out their dream life and worked out exactly how much work he needed to do for them to have that and that’s what he was doing. Just that much and no more. Just enough. Their dream life was simple. In a nutshell, live in a place they loved (beachside, Sydney eastern suburbs) be there for the kids when they got home from school. Have a beautiful family life. Nothing fancy. Just enough. But filled with time for what was important. Not easy, but simple. Perfect.

It stopped me in my tracks. In that moment, the goal posts shifted, the freight train that was my out of control, ever growing business derailed, the dream changed and I was shaken to my core. So many of my darling photographer gang came away from The Event that year so pumped about their businesses but I just wanted to shut mine down, wrap my exhausted arms around my children and never let them go. I was bewildered and frightened and unsure but mostly, I was done.

2012 was a huge, crazy year. We wanted (or so we thought) a big business, big enough for Nick to quit his job in the city, come on board, run it with me and live happily ever after dancing in the freedom of the vast amounts of money we would earn and long exotic holidays we would take with our children to the far flung corners of the globe each summer.

And so bigger it became until last year it exploded and grew bigger and more stressful and less fun and soon I was not shooting at all but desperately trying to run a business that had become a wild animal and hiring more and more people to work in it and paying more and more people to help me look after my children and manage my home. I didn’t know what my place was, only that I was trying to be everything, everywhere and was nowhere. I was lost.

Nick and I would handover when he came home at 7pm, I would go to the office to try and snatch an hours work, he would put the kids to bed, we would quickly eat around 8 or 9pm then I would come back to the office and he would start work, on our business, on the laptop in the kitchen. Most nights. Most weekends. For what?  I don’t think we even knew anymore. We didn’t have time to ask ourselves. We were too committed, had sacrificed too much to give it up and so we kept going.

We were getting what we thought we wanted but I was exhausted at every level of my being. I had no time for my children, my husband, my family, my friends, myself, my life. I had shingles three times in three years. My GP and homeopath both shook their heads in disbelief that anyone could be that stressed and have their body try and tell them in such an extreme way and still not stop. I didn’t know how to stop. I thought it was it was what we wanted. It was the dream and we were achieving it and I couldn’t let it go.

Until 10 minutes with Israel Smith. Until the concept of doing enough. Until someone wise pointed out to me that in chasing the dream, we were missing it completely, couldn’t I see that? Killing ourselves to create a business to give us more family time and in the process missing out on exactly that. Family time. I turned around and Oscar is nearly 10, Eli is 8 in May and Willow, somehow, is almost 3. Another minute with them became just too much to lose.

And so, this year, I am doing enough. Enough to help my husband support our family. Enough to send our children to the school we would like them to have the opportunity to go to. Enough for us to have a modest family holiday each year. That’s it. That’s all we need. We sat down, like one particularly inspirational family had done before us, and talked about what was important, really important to us, and what we needed to do to have that in our lives. We came up with a number and that number will allow me to scale our business back by almost 75%.  And what we will get back in return is time. Precious, glorious time. Worth it’s weight in gold.

And that makes my heart jump in the right direction. It doesn’t frighten me. It doesn’t make me feel like we failed. It makes me feel free. Free to walk my children to school every morning and stroll home with Willow, slowly and spend all day with her. Free to do my own housework (even if I don’t enjoy it),  free to cook for my husband and sit on the sofa and hold hands with him and watch TV if we want to. Free to volunteer at school and be there every afternoon to collect my boys and actually have the prescence of mind to listen to the important stories of the day they have to share with me. Free for coffee with the girls and playdates and homework and walks to the park and a somewhat reluctant return to exercise.  Our business will still run and it will be a small and perfectly formed version of it’s former self with an equally small and perfectly formed team running it with very little involvement from me (just between you and me, I think they’ll do a better job without me

And me? You won’t find my anywhere particularly exotic. You’ll find me on the phone to my mother while staring in confusion at my recipe book. You’ll find me in the herb garden trying to work out my thyme from my coriander and attempting to convince my husband to let me have chickens. You’ll find me on the reserve watching my funny little family play soccer or cricket as the sun goes down. You will find me lazing about on the trampoline with my loves because it makes me happy. Happier than I have been in longer than I can remember. Feel free to drop by. It’s a simple, happy place to be.

It’s enough….

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I fell in love with the name instantly and promptly googled it. The little girl on the cover looked like Willow and the title could have been written for my tiny whisp of wild blonde heaven.

She is wild, my girl. And sweet and funny and outrageously behaved, often. She’s 2 ½ and every other day is her birthday. She is everything that is pink and sparkly and princessy and Dora and Tinkerbell. She is heaven. Heaven. She generally refuses to have her photo taken and is non compliant with most reasonable requests. She is bewildered by unkindness and is a tiny slip of a fiesty fairy with hair that has a personality and life all its own. She reminds me of a Guns n Roses song that I still love. Sometimes when I look at her it makes me catch my breath that she is mine. Sweet, sweet, sweet, child of mine.

We tried not to have her, not to want her, not to long for her. We tried to be done with our two beloved boys. We tried to just be content and satisfied with these two gentle, perfect, healthy, little people we had been so very blessed with. And we were, for a while. For years actually. But she was missing. I dreamt of her long before we conceived her. I knew her. She was our only planned baby, almost the moment we decided to let fate decide on a third she was on her way. We didn’t try for a girl, but it was always her. She was just waiting to be invited.

This moment was one of the most perfect of my life. Captured, of course, by my beautiful Angie. I am so grateful.

I can still feel it every time I look at these photos. The moment our family became complete. The moment our boys met their tiny sister and all my loves were present and accounted for.  Now there are enough little faces at our table, now there is enough noise, enough laughter. Now I don’t live in limbo anymore.

I want so many things for my tiny daughter. I want her to stay wild, to stay sweet, to be strong, to be brave, to choose to be kind, to believe that she is fabulous and beautiful and clever and capable of achieving anything. To understand she doesn’t need anyone to make her whole. I want her to know, with absolute certainty, that she is loved. Completely. I want her understand that things get better, that everything really does look brighter in the morning. That life is beautiful and worthwhile and a fabulous adventure. Like her….

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Because I just love Christmas, the tree, the gifts, the smells, the carols, the candles, the cooking, everything.

Because it was the first year Willow really kind of understood.

Because we knew the boy’s big ticket item that they didn’t really believe we would buy them was under the tree.

Because for the first time, the kids were waking up in their own beds on Christmas morning with presents under their own tree. Because we all still believe in a little of magic and Christmas morning helps us revisit the excited child in our hearts. Because of our perfect tree with its crooked star, decorated with children’s hands. Because even though I wasn’t with the rest of my family, I knew they were all together, and that we while we were missed, we were loved.

Because we had all morning to play and then prepare for a gorgeous Christmas lunch with the most beautiful friends any little family could hope for. Because I had a hot coffee in my hand, made just the way I like it. Because Oscar bought me pictionary so we could have fun together and Eli picked jewellery with green in it because he knows it’s my favourite colour. Because of the little things.

Because this Christmas I remembered that when Nick and I started dating we bought each other Leunig books, because we both love him and now we can share his incredible insights with our children. Because he bought me the most basic of cook books with love in his heart because he believes in me, because he knows how badly I want next year to be about our family and creating a home filled with the smells of homecooking and love.

Because he also knows I am slightly in love with Simon Reeve and bought me his dvd anyway. Because of 1000 other things that fill my heart. Because I love these four people and these two precious furry friends and the happy, noisy chaos that filled our loungeroom.

This little family. This Christmas morning. This joy. This hope of everything I want 2013 to be for us. I am so grateful.

Merry Christmas everyone, and the happiest of Happy New Years xoxo

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I had planned this week to write a blog post about Eli, my sweet, gentle, heaven-sent second born son. And suddenly the timing of that brief conversation on Friday night seemed so much more than a coincidence. My memory of the joy of Eli’s first two years is clouded by the sadness of knowing how much I missed of those moment thanks to a post natal depression diagnosis that didn’t come until he was 15 months old. My fault.  A kind-hearted friend had gently pushed a flyer into my hand a few months after he was born but I brushed it off with ‘I’m not depressed, I’m just exhausted. He screams all the time, he has colic, he doesn’t sleep. I’m just tired, I’m so tired. Anyone would feel like this. Doesn’t everyone judge their days by how many times they are in tears?’

No it turns out, they don’t.

But on it went. It was my constant, heavy companion weighing me down from London where the boys were born, on every adventure, from Thailand to Melbourne where we settled when Eli was 9 months old, only it was worse, so much worse here. In leaving London, we left behind my Mothers Group, every support, every friend, every routine, every everything that had been holding me together and keeping me functioning at some level of normal. Until a day, six months or so after we arrived, that I just ceased to be able to function at all. I put the boys into their double pram and walked out of the house, down to Sandringham village and called Nick to tell him that we were fine, the boys were safe but he needed to come and get me, now. It was the rock bottom moment.

And from then things started to turn around. The next day there was the doctor, the counsellor, the homeopath, the naturopath the everything to get it, me, sorted out. I started to feel better, started building fledging friendships, our little business, a new life. Slowly, gently, steadily I started to return to some semblance of who I’d been before. The fog was lifting and as it faded, I turned around to see a beautiful two year old boy, and my heart broke. I’d missed it. I hadn’t been there. I didn’t know him.

I just saw what I thought I had created in him. His extreme shyness, the way he clung to me yet preferred Nick, his self-consiousness, his anxiety, his insecurity. The way he cried inconsolably and was so angry when he woke up from his daytime sleeps, every day. The way he couldn’t cope with crèche, couldn’t be apart from me.  Oscar’s start in life had been so different, so idyllic and I couldn’t help but feel Eli had been robbed of that, that something had been broken in him, that I had let him down.

It’s a sadness I have felt so often when I look at him, when I wonder if he’s ok, when I wonder if he remembers. Until last night, when I went looking for some photos of him to put in his blog post and found myself immersed in images from a time I had so wanted to forget. But this time, somehow, I saw something different and something extraordinary happened. I found different memories. Happy moments. Moments where I can see and feel how loved he was, how happy he was and how connected we were. Even if they were fleeting they were there. I was there.

I started to remember a million different, precious, wonderful things. I remembered how sweet he was, how intensely he would just gaze at us. I remembered my sister in law calling him a cuddle thief because the only place he was happy was in our arms. I remembered the funny little way he used to hold his fingers and crumple up his nose, I remembered how he would hold his hand out for us to kiss it, like a prince. I remembered how I loved him in all-in-one pyjamas. I remembered he used to walk around with his hands behind his back, thinking. Our little professor. I remembered how he loved the Wiggles. I remembered helping him put his first ever Christmas decoration on the tree and dressing him for his Naming Day. I remembered blowing out the candles on his first birthday cake. I remembered that he felt safe enough to fall asleep in my arms on an elephant’s back in Thailand. I remembered being there. I remembered the moments of joy, of breathing him in, of saving whatever light I could salvage on the darkest of days for him, for them, for these memories, preserved in precious, priceless photographs for me to stumble across on a day like today and be healed.

And now? He’s 7 and he’s extraordinary. I see him now. I see every gentle, beautiful, soft, wise, clever, funny part of him. Every day. His favourite place to be is climbing the trees in our front garden and on the reserve at the back of our house. He is happiest doing tricks on the trampoline and begging me to watch ‘just one more, it’s a really quick one’. He is a quiet achiever, astounding us regularly with his intelligence and the quiet understated way he goes about it. He is stickler for rules and fairness and amazes us with his sensitivity to other people. He wants to prove he is grown up enough to stay up late but still completely falls apart when he’s over tired. School has been the making of him. He loves it. He loves any kind of sports and is the polar opposite of the brother he adores. Willow hero worships him. He is quiet and self assured and sure of his place in this world and I pray he holds on to those feelings. He is loved. And he knows it. And we’re ok. And we are building new memories all the time. And I am so grateful.

I’m not really sure what happens during Post Natal Depression Awareness Week. But to anyone, everyone who has walked this path, you are not alone. Just knowing that has brought me more comfort over the years than words can express.  xoxox

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9 years.

9 years of motherhood. 9 years of feelings that knock you sideways in their intensity. The joy, the fear, the happiness, the frustration. The love.

The love.

The love.

He is perfect.

He is ridiculously tall and impossibly thin, he has a million crooked teeth far too big for his tiny little jaw, he has a mop of thick dirty blonde hair that was once the colour of snow.

He can be rude and obnoxious far too frequently but will come back five minutes later and tell me he is sorry, and mean it. His attitude is all pre-teen boundary pushing angst, but he still runs into our room to climb into bed with us several nights a week. He is astoundingly clever but often couldn’t be bothered. He is all cool and I don’t care but can break your heart with his insecurity. He has the most incredible pale blue eyes. He is beautiful.

He is funny and wise and sweet and annoying. He detests most things that relate to any sort of sporting activity and adores anything to do with technology and computers. He is starting his own blog, with tips for children on how to program computers. I’m not sure how large his readership will be but my heart smiles when I see the spark in his eyes. He is his father’s son, in oh so many ways but he has my love of people, he shares my joy in company.

He is quirky and left of centre, he is a fabulous dancer but will not let anyone teach him how to. He hears a drumbeat all his own and moves to that, his way. He is an amazing writer. He is a reader of any and every book he can get his hands on. He likes to know what everyone, everywhere, is talking about. He has the best hearing of anyone I know. He is creative and unstoppable when he is engaged in something he is interested in. He is impossible to get started on anything else.

He is gob smackingly self-centred but the sweetest big brother that ever lived to his wild, demanding baby sister. He adores and resents his brother in equal measure. He can be as mean as he can be kind to him. I hope he chooses kindness more often than not.

He has a cubby house full of nerf guns even though we were always going to be a ‘no-guns’ kind of family. There were 19 at last count.After his gadgets, they are his favourite things.

He is complicated and intense and over thinks the simplest of things. He is incredibly fun and fabulous company. He used to believe he could do anything and we are desperately trying to help him hold on to that. I see age and subtle knocks and society putting dents in his sense of his incredible self and it makes my chest tighten.

I want him to keep seeing himself like he used to, like we do.

Perfect.

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I took some photos of them on Sunday and it made me catch my breath. This beautiful little family that not so long ago seemed like an impossible dream. I am awe of them. 9 years of struggling to become parents, 25 rounds of IVF and too many heart-wrenching miscarriages, and then this. Six years later. This miracle. These giggles on a Sunday morning.

When my brother called me to tell me they were expecting their first gorgeous daughter (who was then just a tiny little hope-filled dot on a scan photo), I was active on a UK based forum, it helped me feel connected to my beloved London. I sent out a post asking for prayers, positive thoughts, anything, everything, for them, for this tiny baby, for hope that this time, there would be a miracle. What happened next was the most extraordinary example of human kindness, generosity of spirit and love that I have ever encountered. A constant stream, from all corners of the globe, for 8 months, of messages, poems, daily prayers and positive thoughts for two complete strangers and their unborn child. Every single day, willing her safely into the world, into their empty aching arms, into our family.

I wanted to share their story now for two reasons, because it is a story of everything that is good and beautiful, of dreams coming true, of overcoming impossible odds, of persistence and love and hope. But I also wanted to share it because I am constantly saddened by how much unkindness there is on the internet today, and yet what we experienced, five short years ago, was just the most beautiful outpouring of love and kindness. It still inspires me today.

When Neve was born, I posted this, for the hundreds of strangers who were waiting and hoping for this moment, just like we were:

In a quiet room in a Sydney hospital, nestled safely in her loving mummy and daddy’s arms is a beautiful little girl. She was born just before 1am this morning (on her due date!) and weighed 7lbs 1oz.

I can’t begin to explain the emotion of that long awaited phone call at 2am, when the same voice that told me he was looking at a scan photo of their 7 week old little heartbeat 8 months ago, said with the same awe and wonder and joy, that they had a daughter.

They are a precious family of three and our family finally feels complete too. She is utterly beautiful with masses of long black hair. She is perfect and the reason why all the years of heartache, hopes and tears were worth it. This moment and this miracle baby girl is the reason why they never ever gave up on their dream. We can’t explain how proud we feel of them and how humbled by their courage and love. They are already the most amazing parents.

And to all of you, I quite can’t type without tears spilling over when I think of all the love you’ve sent, the thoughts, the posts, the prayers, the poems, the committment to this tiny little being on the other side of the world. Its just overwhelming. There is a part of each and every one of you in this miracle and she will carry that love with her all through her life. What an amazing start. She will have your words forever and for those of you who sent love but didn’t post, we’ll know your messages are woven in there too. We will never ever forget this journey we’ve all shared together and the perfect end to this part of it. Thank you doesn’t even begin to express our gratitude.  

We saw her today for the first time, and I don’t think as many happy tears have ever been cried. I put all your messages in a special book for them and we all read bits and pieces throughout the day. I can’t begin to tell you how much they loved every post, every message, every prayer you all sent.

Clemsterdarcy/DonnyLass, your poem about the ‘Before Beans’ made our dad cry, and he’s a salt-of-the-earth Aussie farmer so that’s saying something. It has made everyone who has read it cry with the beauty of the sentiment to the babies they lost, guiding their tiny sister safely into the world.
LittleMissSensible, your line about the global joy being experienced around the world at Neve’s birth made us all just marvel at the love and generosity of you amazing mothers everywhere.
Kimi, your post about giving a prayer of thanks for a baby to people you don’t know on the other side of the world just summed this whole thread up. Words fail me.
AuntyStrawbery, as I said to you, the family has made a unanimous decision to adopt you so if you could just get yourself organised to come over that would be great. Every.single.day you wrote to this baby, and now she’s here.,…… you may now exhale!

It was, as I said to my darling brother, one of the most beautiful days of my life and I want you all to know that you were truly there, so much a part of it. Such a lot of the day was spent reading your messages to them, laughing out loud together over them, crying over them and just being enveloped by all of the love around us and this tiny precious baby. There were too many posts laughed and cried over to mention but just know that every single one of them was read and appreciated so much.

Our family has not all been together since before I left for England, 7 years ago, so for all of us, it was incredibly special to spend a day together in a hospital room, sharing in a miracle. I will be forever grateful to my sister who said ‘just come’. As we went to leave, the tears started flowing just as they had the moment we walked in, we just didn’t want to go. My father hugged us all and said ‘if you can wake up in forty years time and be as proud of your children as I am of all of you, then your lives will have been good ones’. It was an amazing day for him and our mum too. To have all their children together, meeting this, their tenth, desperately wanted grandchild.

I kissed my precious new niece and hugged her beautiful mummy goodbye and turned to see my brother sitting on the bed, suddenly overwhelmed. All of the emotion of the last two days, the complete joy, the overwhelming love, the sleepless nights, the sheer relief, the anxiety of the past 8 months, the grief of the last ten years, culminated in this moment he had dreamed of for longer than any of us can comprehend, to be sitting beside his wife and child, with his family around him to celebrate her birth. My eldest sister softly said ‘she’s here now, she’s here’. And she is, and all is as it should be.

And so it is. And with their second heavenly girl born just 16 months later, the happiest of happy endings.

This precious little family. This miracle. This proof of the goodness of humanity on so many levels.

This is their story and I feel so blessed to be able to tell it. In words and pictures.
xxxx

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On Saturday I spent the most beautiful afternoon with them and their new cat, Boo. This wonderful little family. Just capturing them doing what they do, teaching their children to play the beautiful music they have dedicated their lives to, reading, cooking, playing backyard cricket, sharing fruit and silly stories at their table, being together, loving each other.

I wanted to take these moments and turn them into something real for them, something they can touch and look at and remember, forever. Something that will make them close their eyes and hear that laughter long after their backyard has fallen quiet. Something that will remind of what they felt that day and that their life together is beautiful.

It was never about taking a perfect family portrait. It was just about them, everything that they are, everything that is between them. That is why I was there. And it was such a gift to be asked.

Thank you, my lovely friends, for reminding me of why I do what I do xoxox

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It’s been a long time coming. The morphing of Tuesday’s Child Photography into this. Just Tuesday’s Child, a little piece of me. A platform to write and to blend my words with my photos, for special projects, my occasional client work and just the day to day beauty that is this life. A space for me to record this journey for me, for my children and for anyone else who would like to travel with me a little while.

Words and photography. My two loves. I think perhaps, if pushed, photography is my second love, a no-less genuine love, a good and beautiful creative life that brings me a gentle happiness when I am at my best, when I am capturing what is between people. It comes easily, naturally and it feels safe to me. I can just do it. Writing is a different, wilder beast. It frightens me, challenges me, brings up my every insecurity and lays them out in front of me, taunting me. So months, sometimes years, go by before I feel brave enough to return to it. But I’m back, again, because it makes me come alive, it makes my heart beat. Faster, louder, stronger. My secret, passionate love affair.  I’ve missed it. And I got to wondering if perhaps I could have both?  If this, the two of them together, not one or the other, was it, what I was born to do. And so here I am, writing and filling the empty spaces with photographs. Or perhaps taking photographs and filling the empty spaces with words? I wonder if they’ll dance around each other for a while, competing for glory, I wonder which will be prettier. It doesn’t matter. Somehow, one day, they will just blend and I will create something beautiful, with my two loves and it will make my heart sing.

So 40 (almost). Am I where I thought I would be? Hoped I would be? I’m not sure. Did I reach my goal weight? Ah no. Am I exercising daily, yelling never, eating sensibly, living to a schedule, being more organised, less chaotic, living within budget, setting goals, remembering who needs to be where, when? Well no, actually, no. Epic fail on oh.so.many.counts. But am I happy? I am. I am happy. I am loved.

I have tiny hands wrapped around my face and a little piece of heaven whispering,  ’wook me mum, wook at me, I wuv you mum’. I have the same boys I yelled at that morning tell me I’m the most awesome mum, ever, that night. I am forgiven. And I forgive myself. And I just breath them in.  I share my life with a gentle, beautiful man I love, passionately, and who, by strange happy fate, feels the same away about me. My door opens often to the gorgeous faces of friends and my kitchen bench is a happy home for long talks and the familiar sound of champagne glasses and laughter. When my house is empty and my phone is quiet, my heart is filled with love for the friends I don’t see as often but who are no less precious and real to me and who have helped shape this beautiful life, helped shape me.

My darling parents, my sisters, my brother are still important, beautiful parts of my life, 40 years after I completed our family. I love that, love them.  Love that we’ve grown from 6 to 21 and that our children have cousins to share their childhood with. I have loved this journey, from my farmyard babyhood to the bright lights of London, from the madness of Egypt to the stillness of the Himalayas, from the carefree backpacker to overwhelmed mother of three, from a thousand journeys to the quiet of my own backyard. The adventures, the travels, the loves, the extraordinary transition from child to parent, the day to day, the dizzying highs and the desperate lows that have all brought me right to this moment, to this feeling. An overwhelming gratitude, a contentment, and yet a quiet determination to make it even better.  My list of goals keeps growing and I love that. So I will push on, keep striving, but gently, more gently. I am learning to remember the joy is in the journey itself, to not lose sight of who is walking beside me, of the tiny hands so quickly losing their warm baby squishiness in mine, of the beautiful boys whose strides will soon be long enough to outrun me. I want to slow my pace down to match theirs, not teach them to rush to keep up with me. I just want them beside me as long as I can have them, before they walk away from me in their own direction, to their own adventures. So I am making time to stop and play along the way, to breathe, to love, to be gentle, to nurture, to be.

So 40, I am ready for you.  30 may have a prettier ring to it,  but you’ll grow on me I’m sure.

I am happy to be here. I am happy.

And I will leave you with my four loves. The four people who made my heart expand beyond recognition and made us this family of our own. Captured by my beautiful Angie, the kind of friend everyone should be so lucky to have at least once in a lifetime.

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