The Disappearing Mother.

Right now as I am writing, my two youngest children are literally painting their bodies. I have told them over and over and over again to only paint the paper, and yet their hands are covered in red, their faces look like filthy rainbows, and their shirts are smeared with "washable paint" that never seems to actually wash out. Am I disappearing?

Sure, I could stop writing and supervise their every streak onto the paper; but at some point, you have to back up and just let it happen. At some point, you just need a break. And if a wild romp of painting gives me a break, I'll take it; even if that means I'll ache with regret later as I'm scraping paint off every crevice of my home.

And that is the truth. 

The bare-boned, honest, I can't-give-them-every-second-of-my-life truth. 

Do you ever feel like you are disappearing? Do you ever feel as if the only purpose to your existence is for someone else?  Do you ever find yourself wondering if anyone can actually see you?

Most days I feel as if I am only there to fix things, answer questions, shuttle teeny people in a crumb-infested minivan, find lost objects, smear peanut butter on bread, twist the cap off the jar of pickles, change to channel, rub backs, administer medicine, wipe bums and tend to others --always. 

Recently I have found myself asking, "do I even exist?" 
 

Just after receiving a wonderful writing opportunity the other day and I was expecting the world to stop and congratulate me, one of my children ran into the room in hysterics because he had lost his favorite toy, while another started whining for chocolate milk that she needed right-that-very-moment-no-matter-what. So, rather than basking in my glory, I had to forget about my emails and tend to the needs of my children. In that moment, I could not help but wonder if I existed anymore as a separate entity or if I had become just a continuation of my children?

That afternoon, as I was talking on the phone with a nurse at the doctor's office, one of my children came into the room asking questions and searching for his iPod. Did he not see that I was on the phone?  

Shortly before bed, I told my kids to go brush their teeth. Do you know what happened? No one even looked up. Can they even hear me? Am I even here? 

That night, as I finally returned to answer emails and do some writing, my daughter stampeded into my room, waking up my son who was asleep in bed next to me, declaring that there were monsters in her room. So I invited her under my arm and closed my laptop once again. With two littles resting on either side of me, my heart felt content; and yet, the urge to be more than this person ached within my mind.

I have dreams, ya know? I have passions. I want to write. I want to take beautiful photographs. I want to touch the lives of others with my words and stories. I want my name to be heard-- to be talked about, to be appreciated, to be noticed. I want a career. I want to write a best selling novel. I want a moment of silence. I want to be able to toast to my successes without interruption for just one second.

Here is the irony of it all: more than all of that I want to be a mother-- their mother. So, I put my junk on the back burner and get to it when I can because my right now is only temporary. These teeny toes and chubba-thighs only last for so long. These cuddles are only free for a bit. Sooner or later, I will have to ask--no, beg-- them to come lay with me in my bed. Sooner or later this king size bed is going to feel fiercely empty.

Maybe mothers were made to feel just a little bit invisible from time to time-- maybe it means we are doing something right. Hopefully it means that we have sacrificed just enough in order to give just enough. You see, our job is to nurture our children from the shadows as they frolick in the sun. Is it not?

And while my children bask in their glory, I will keep trying to remember that being called, "Mama," is the greatest accomplishment of all --even better than writing that novel I long to write. After all, a novel will never love me back.

Dear mother, you are not disappearing. I see you. They see you.

Father Daughter Dance "First Look" Pictures| Massachusetts Family Photographer

We started the tradition of Father/Daughter Dance "First Look" pictures last year, when I was amidst the chaos of shooting weddings constantly and realized that "first looks" can be adorable for more than just brides & grooms. Last year, the father/daughter "first look" was with just my sweet Delaney and it was so much fun! She still looks back on those images adoringly. This year was the first year that Claire went to the dance as well so it was extra special. 

Delaney, of course, picked out her dress and how she wanted to wear her hair so I cannot take credit for any of the cuteness, only the documentation of it all. 

My favorite part about photography is THIS. Capturing memories that my kids will cherish forever and ever and ever. The days are long but the years are short and I want to capture all of the really really great days so I can keep them forever for my babies. These are the moments that matter. This is it. 

Here is our Father/Daughter Dance First Look: 

My Minimalist Office: Massachusetts Lifestyle Photographer

I've recently realized that some of my biggest stressors in life are clutter, disorganization and darkness. So, when revamping my office space (which is, by the way, the only nook in the house that is ALL mine), the first thing I decided to do was to put on a fresh coat of white paint on the walls and have my husband install this antique window so I can see into the living room and spy on my kiddos while I'm working.

The walls went from a sage green to a bright white and the difference is mind blowing and so happy and clean and inviting-- or at least for me. What I truly wanted out of this space as a serene and minimalist office space that felt welcoming and inspiring and I knew the white paint would transform the room. Now, every time I step in, it feels like a beautiful blank space where I can create anything. We used this paint (Rust-Oleum 2774 Zinsser Interior EggShell, Perma White) because we already had it lying around and I am a firm believer that using what you have on hand first is best-- if possible.

I wanted to keep everything white to truly embrace that minimalist feel --where less is more and my mind feels free to wander and create. So, I went with this beautiful glass desk from Pottery Barn and a white leather chair (because my husband has a matching chair and he refused to get anything "too girly" or "not comfy" ). You can find the chair here: Bellezza Ergonomic Office PU Leather Chair Executive Computer Hydraulic, White. It's the best thing that ever happened to me.

One of my favorite products was the hanging shelf which I have seen done as a DIY project before. Buuuuut I am too lazy and my husband was already annoyed with me about putting in the window so you can find one here, if you love it as much as I do:  HomArt Crate Shelf, Suspended. For the record, I velcroed the corners of the shelf to the walls so my kids wouldn't think they could use it as a swing (haha).

Next up, all I had to do was hang some dried flowers and pictures (I love the square prints from Artifact Uprising) I already had lying around and add a little shelf to display some of my cameras (kind of obsessed with my fuji polaroid Fujifilm Instax Mini 8 Instant Film Camera (White). Again, simple is better. All white with a few pops is a minimalist's dream.

Lastly, I finished my minimalist office off with a pretty new mousepad (this one:Show Love to Your True Love, with Flowers Like Sleeping Princess Round Mouse Pad) and then my pretty little notebooks to stay on track of all my photography and mentoring sessions). And boom. A beautiful, serene nook in my home JUST FOR ME. Feels so so good.

What I Want to Tell My Daughter About Her Body.

I've written about my confidence issues before, but as my daughter grows up and becomes more and more wrapped up in her appearance, I cannot help but wonder if I am making the same mistakes that my parents did with me. 

As a child, I was often told that I was beautiful. I know, I know, you're probably sarcastically thinking, oh you poor thing. But honestly, looking back I think being told that I was beautiful more often than I was smart or strong or athletic created an overwhelming need in me to be perfect. 

With time, I began to rely on my beauty. I began to see it as the only thing I was bringing to the table. It overcame me. The need to standout in a crowd washed over me no matter where I was. I always wanted to be the prettiest girl in the room because I knew that I was never going to be the smartest or the strongest or the sassiest. In fact, I was a little plain, a tad boring and insanely self-conscious. My face burned crimson red with embarrassment more often than not and one of my very best friends nicknamed me "lobster." I now wonder if the reason I was always blushing was because I was terrified of what I looked like as I spoke to others. Did they think I was pretty? I hoped so. If not, what else was I? 

When I did not feel beautiful, I did not feel whole. When I felt too fat, I would not eat. When I forgot to put on makeup, I felt naked. And eventually it sent me into an obsession about my weight; because, I thought, who was I if I was not the pretty, skinny girl? 

I've told myself so many times that I would only stress my daughter's strength and smarts and never her external beauty. I wanted to dwell on her health rather than her eating habits; and I wanted more than anything to see her eyes light up at artwork or athletics rather than makeup and clothes. 

Yet, here I am, the mother of a 3 year old who sneaks into the bathroom to put on makeup and wears princess high heals around the house on a daily basis. She will throw tantrums until she gets to wear what she thinks are the pretty tights and she wants cupcake-flavored lip glass on before leaving the house. Yeah, she's 3.

Is it something that I have done or is it just naturally embedded into who she is destined to be? I think it's a little bit of both. I believe Delaney was born to be a girly-girl. She loves tutus, sparkles and blush and would rather spend the afternoon pretending to be Lady Gaga than playing baseball; it's who she is. And I love her for that.

But I believe that I am partly giving in to how society is molding our daughters. The truth is, our society values women more for than beauty and the size of their breasts than they do for the intellect or character. And here I am going along with the crowd, as I take her picture after she puts on play makeup instead of after she scores a goal in soccer, or when I say, "Delaney, you are so beautiful" after she puts on her tutu and does the most lovely ballerina twirl. 

Not to mention, Delaney has heard me pick myself apart. She has seen me stare in the mirror as I glide my hand over the curves of my stomach with disgust. She has heard me complain about needing to lose weight, having nothing to wear and looking aged. Too many times I have put my own looks down while she stands in the next room listening. She is receiving all these messages and molding them into how she views herself. 

It is unacceptable.

My daughter needs to be told that her body is not an ornament, but rather an instrument. Her body should not be the scale of which her worth is weighed. She does not need to strive for perfection in boob-jobs and botox. I would never want her to feel the pressure of having to be the prettiest or skinniest girl in the room; because at some point, looks fade and what is left is wisdom. I want her to be wise. I want her to strive to be the smartest, the most well-read, and the most traveled. I want her to use her body to run marathons, play sports, explore the world, and seek creative outlets. 

I want her to expect more of herself than I ever did. I want her to know that her insides are so much more valuable than her outsides.

So, it is okay if my daughter pursues her love of Ballet; but I want her passion to lie in the art form rather than the buns and tutus. And when she gets off the stage after her first performance, I am going to say, "Delaney, you are so talented."

The Moment My Son Was Diagnosed with Autism.

It was a cold December morning. The world felt raw and unattached as I swung my feet out from my comforter and onto the chipped hardwood floors. 6:00 am and we had to be into the city by 8. The thought of trekking through the traffic and breaking my son's extremely strict, never-goes-a-day-without-sitting-in-the-same-spot-on-the-couch, morning routine was enough to weigh down my shoulders. In my happiest voice, I said "good morning baby," in a long dragged out tone as I lifted his covers and peered at his trembling bones.  Every morning, when the covers are lifted and the night's warmth is pierced with morning air, his skin trembles and turns a shade of my blue that most people would never notice. But I notice. I always notice. 

I trace his cheek with the outsides of my fingers, giving him a few more moments to acknowledge the day. This was my way --always my way-- of giving him time to adjust and convince him that today will be good -- that he should be prepared to smile. Isn't it funny how we create these routines, and these expectations without ever knowing we are doing so. Without ever seeing the why....

The morning routine continues -- following the strict schedule that Luke has created and I have enabled until finally, we are loaded into our white mini van with the heat turned higher than necessary until suddenly I realize my cheeks are burning. Slowly, our van is swarmed by cars and taxi cabs, and the sound of honking horns and vibrating sterios reminds me of where we are headed. I glance out my window at men beneath houses made of boxes and blankets, and holding signs asking for food, and I think to myself..."well...it could be worse."

I glance over at my husband who has maintained the same straight face he always has when faced with potentially life-altering moments such as these. When I try to chat about what could come of the day, he greets my words with "I don't knows." 

Maybe someone will finally know. After all, isn't that why we are here? Heading into the city-- the renowned Boston Children's-- so we can finally talk to someone who knows. Will anyone know?

5 hours of testing later,  broken up only by one snack and one walk in the hallway, we were told to come back tomorrow to hear our fate. As if they didn't already know.

On the way out, as the cold air pierced my skin, I thought about how well my son behaved. How good he did. And how there is no way, after having such a great day with no tantrums, that anyone would ever see what I thought --maybe-- I saw.  I was almost...disappointed. I didn't want to leave another appointment with them not seeing the truth about my day to day life with my boy. Would these struggles always be our little secret? Would they never have a label? Would we continue through this life, always walking on eggshells and preparing for the next tantrum? Would we always be at party --in a corner-- as he whispers in my ear how scared he is, all the while everyone telling me how well behaved he is.  Gosh, if they only knew. 

As we rounded the bend on our walk back to the car and the air hit me from a new direction, my mind went still The truth is coming, I thought. I pulled up my hood, grateful to be anonymous and that no one could hear the silence inside my head.

As the next day came (as they often do), we sat in the office, sipping our almost-cold coffees when she finally said it aloud "Luke has Autism."

She went on to tell us his strengths and weaknesses and his other diagnosis of Developmental Coordination Disorder. She went on to tell us how sweet he is. And how he is extraordinarily social for a child on the spectrum. She went on to reassure us that we will have all the services and support we will ever need. She went on to tell us everything we already knew about our baby. She went on. And on. And on. And on. And on.

Silence. Everything, silenced. There was not a single movement in the room except for my murky, trembling hands, and the shift of the doctor's leg as she uncomfortably waited for us to speak. There was no way to spit-shine this moment. Or to smack a bandaid over this cut and call it healed. This was not a death sentence nor was it an invitation to some renowned club. It was just--- the truth. The bare-boned, matter-of-fact, truth. Suddenly one of my hands clamped the other and my trembling ceased. My entire body went silent. Then..out of no where, my mouth spoke the words, "thank you."

...for finally saying what I've always known.