The other day I was asked to provide a photo of me and my son Sam for this blog. Could I find one? No! The only ones of us together are taken by me with the camera at arms length. The result is rarely flattering and usually chin heavy. Now if I’d been asked for a picture of Sam with my husband then there would have been a plethora to choose from. We could fill albums of specific father/son moments that capture the beauty of their relationship. Indeed I often find myself moved to grab the camera and take a quick snap of the two of them together. But it would seem that this same thought never ever occurs to my husband. Now if my DH was placed in front of an inanimate object such as a building or a mountain he’d more than likely be inspired to take a photo or twelve (we have many examples of such photos in our holiday collection), so what is it about me that leaves him uninspired?

I must admit, that I find photos of “stuff” very dull. Unless there is a human in a photo then I’m rarely interested in it. The funny thing is that I think DH feels the same way – when we look at our holiday snaps, it’s not the pictures of our resort that bring back the memories, it’s the photos of us having fun that put a smile on our faces. That’s why it makes me a bit sad that there are so few nice pictures of me and Sam. I want to try and hold on to every moment and every stage of his life and it’s just a shame that I have so few reminders of the little things we’ve done together that made us laugh.

Having said all that I think it only fair to point out that this is not a phenomena linked only to my husband. According to my mother friends, their husbands and partners are just as bad. Mmmm, strange. So what’s the answer? The only thing I can think of is to either shove a camera into their hands at appropriately touching moments or (the one I think is more likely to succeed) simply grow longer arms.

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Tags: memories, photography

Today I am mostly thinking about “me time”. A friend and I have booked in for some studio time next week, which basically means we’re going to get a make-over and then have our photographs taken. I can’t wait. I’m a huge fan of America’s, Canada’s, Britain’s and Australia’s Next Top Model and feel that my dedication to these programmes will help me to really work it in front of the camera. Who am I kidding? Something strange happens to me when I’m in front of the camera. I’m not unattractive, but as soon as someone points a lens in my direction something odd occurs. A strange look of panic inhabits my eye-balls and my expression starts to resemble my toddler’s poo face. God, what am I going to do? Last time I had professional photos taken my Mother said I looked like a horse, thanks Mum.

I have no doubt that the day itself is going to be lots of fun, dressing up and doing make-up are two of my most favourite things in the whole world. If we were to add a bit of pink fizz (Obv not allowed in my current condition) and some suitable diva background music then I would absolutely be in heaven. The trouble is that there’s a very vain part of me that wants the photos to reveal the gorgeous, slim dolly I was in my twenties, not the slightly weathered woman I am these days. It’s strange getting older as I feel exactly the same as I did before, it’s just that my once fresh, glowing skin is a little duller and my once pert breasts are now a little longer.

Oh well, let’s be honest, being twenty something was a pain in the backside. On the bright side, my long boobs are a consequence of bringing a wonderful little person into the world and my dull skin is a result growing old disgracefully. Both an excellent use of my personal resources. They say that the camera never lies, so let’s just hope the studio isn’t afraid of a bit of gentle airbrushing…

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Right, I’ve had enough now. Being pregnant is rubbish. I’d convinced myself in the months trying to conceive that pregnancy was this wonderful, beautiful state of being which outweighed the minor irritations of morning sickness, headaches, indigestion, wind and constipation. But it was all a lie! These first few weeks are a nightmare, I have to go to work and pretend to be perky and upbeat to a bunch of twenty some-things who think I’m old. I asked one of them recently how old he thought I was and he said, “33?” The bloody cheek! I am 33, but I don’t want some whipper-snapper confirming it for me. The youth of today have no manners; I’d have lied when I was a twenty-something.

Anyway, I digress. Being pregnant in the first trimester is, for me, like being ill for 3 months. If it was possible, I would lie in bed and wait for it to all be over, but unfortunately having a job, a toddler and a husband mean that’s not possible. The last time I was pregnant, my morning sickness lasted for 16 weeks. I remember one of my friends saying she thought I’d gone off her as I didn’t call or meet up or anything during that time. The reality was that I just felt so dreadful I could barely move. I suppose the difference between then and now is that this time I have to move. In fact, if I don’t move for any prolonged period of time, my toddler will probably take the opportunity to body-slam me to get some attention.

So, it’s time to prioritise, focus on the essentials. Housework can take a back seat, cooking can take a back seat, in fact everything apart from going to work and making sure I don’t smell can take a back seat until the trimester of hell is over. Unfortunately, work is an essential which means that going to work on the train is an essential. I have struggled to get a seat the last few times I’ve caught my morning train and as I stood clinging to the nearest pole and trying not to vom, I have been very tempted to stick out my considerable gut and wail, “please someone give me a seat, I’m very heavily pregnant!” The only problem with that is that upon sitting down, anyone taking the time to examine my “bump” would notice it had metamorphosised into several tyre shaped rolls. Not good.

Well as I speak I am only 2 days away from being 12 weeks pregnant – officially the time when morning sickness ends and the “glowing” phase begins. Excellent, I’m ready to glow, let’s just hope that this time my morning sickness sticks to the schedule…

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Hello everyone. I’m Mother M. I am a married, 33 year old, mother of a 2 year old boy. I am also 11 weeks and 3 days pregnant and sick as a dog. I work three days a week, which I resent hugely and am struggling with the fact that my dreamy husband is going to be 38 in a few days – that’s nearly 40! To top it all, I have just eaten an egg and cress sandwich which tasted a little of cheese and am now wondering if I’ll spend tonight throwing my guts up.

Anyway enough of the intimates, I thought I’d start off by sharing a recent muse I had about little boys. I came from a family of women. Of course there was the odd male lurker, but mostly my family has always been dominated by the fairer sex. When I got pregnant with my first child, I expected to have a girl, my mother expected me to have a girl, even my husband expected me to have a girl.
Our 20 week scan however, revealed a baby with a rather large male appendage (DH was very proud), which destroyed any possible notion that I would have a girl. “Hooray!” I bravely bleated, internally grieving all the little girl’s clothes I would never buy. I knew about little girls, I liked little girls. Little boys on the other hand were like another species, a smelly alien species. My dad wasn’t about when I was growing up, so the only male I’ve ever really got to know is my husband. To be fair, he’s a pretty good example of a man, I actually rather like him, but not even my husband in his “baby” moments would be any sort of preparation for having an actual boy child. What was I going to do with a boy for goodness sake? How do you cope with their nether regions? What do they like to do? Help!

After the scan I sat on the bus home and called my Mother to tell her the news. She responded in the way only a mother can with the eternally comforting words, “Never mind darling, maybe the next one will be a girl”. Super. Thanks for the pep talk Mum. Strangely though, her disappointment rather stirred me into action. What did she mean, “Never mind”? This was my child, my first born. Of course we would all love and adore him, of course he would be as good as a girl, maybe even better! I had 20 weeks of pregnancy left to get used to the idea of having a boy and by the time my due date arrived I was desperate to meet my son.

It’s now two years on and I can honestly say that I’m a big fan of little boys and think it’s safe to note the following;
1. They like balls. All balls, any balls, just balls.
2. They like wrestling and tumbling about.
3. They are very noisy.
4. They like cars, trucks, planes, diggers etc…
5. They have a very early attraction to their own private parts.
My son also likes;
1. Pink bikes
2. Dollies
3. His tea set
4. His mini Dyson
5. Cuddles and kisses from his favourite people (and the odd stranger).

So, to sum up, I love being a Mother to my little boy, he is so much fun, so interesting, so gorgeous, so cute – shall I go on? Let’s just say I rather like him. My Mum rather likes him too. In fact, I think he was just what we needed.

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