Photography & Parenthood

Seventeen years ago, I sat in front of the Christmas tree with an envelope and a swollen tummy. Inside that envelope was the answer to the ultrasound designating my child's genetic induction to the human race.

It was a girl.

My heart expanded and collapsed. My mind raced. I was terrified. How was I to raise a child? Just because I was one didn't mean I knew how to handle one.

That little ultrasound is driving now. I am terrified. Again. I had made it this far, raised her with every ounce of motherhood in my being, only to release her into this world. Then it hit me. Not the car next to us, the realization that my job was nearing its end, but was it good enough? Had I earned my wings of motherhood?

The only thing perfect about my parenting has been the love for my children.

After four children, I believe there is no easy way to parent, there is no right way, there are no text book answers. However I did find a parallel...

Motherhood is similar to photography:

You are successful not just due to manuals or classes,
but mostly through instinct, dedication,
and an unquenchable desire to create something special
which will someday touch the lives of others.
It takes years to see the results you spent your whole life dreaming of.
The pain of giving birth is relieved in the moment you hold that perfect image in your hands.
There will be many mentors, but the result will only be unique if it’s nurtured by you.
Children are like negatives. Not until they fully develop will you see the results of your labor.
Memories are created but never owned,
just as children are birthed,
they must venture out and alter the world
in even the smallest of ways.
It’s the little moments nobody else notices which will grab your heart
burrow into your soul
and change your life…
forever.

Newborn Parents

A tiny hand envelops his father's thumb

sensing the future through the ribs of his fingerprint

Holding it with a natural confidence

despite months of grasping through an ocean of fluid

longing for connection

His mother's hair tickles his nose

it crumples

he sneezes

she laughs

he looks

she stops

He is theirs completely

A bond

no one else could ever understand

could never fully comprehend

it is as unique as a snowflake cut from Nature's hem

Their voices bounce off his heart

the echo calms his soul ensuring him he is home

They speak of an angel

he searches their eyes

the reflection of his silhouette shifts in the light

He answers with a visceral tale of garbled glee

bubbles blossom from between his lips

Mother guides his tiny hand to cradle her cheek

closing her eyes

she breathes into his hair

translating his monologue of innocence

They now know the meaning of life

As simple as their bond is profound

The meaning of life is not only in the palm of their hand

it is holding it...

Rockin’ the Bump

Bumps are sexy. Perhaps it's the unexpected confidence some pregnant women find in the lack of desire or ability to suck in our tummies. The freedom of wearing elastic waistbands without judgment. It's a time when celebrating a bloated belly is the most natural and liberating feeling in the world of estrogen. Our DNA explodes with possibilities and our hormones collide in the euphoric wrath of orgasmic ash from which diamonds emerge without flaws...
Ok, perhaps this is true for some, for others the experience is one of a uterine cataclysm resulting in esophageal eruptions with women begging for relief from the cast of the porcelain gods.
Either way, there's an underlying feeling in some women to simply see themselves as the pregnant goddess they are. It's a time when their bodies could never be more naturally beautiful, when the life growing from within connects those around her like a web with saccharine threads collecting the energies of those yearning for a connection with all that is right and authentic in this world.
This blog is about celebrating not only life, but the beauty in its creation and the joy in embracing the process...of rockin' the bump...

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