A Tale of Two Moms (and their photographing of one son)

My son Mac lives with his two moms. I carried him and was able to do so with the help of his dad, an artichoke jar, and a lot of luck and love. I love watching the person he is becoming. He is goofy and funny. He has warm hands and cold feet.  You can regularly find him making his My Little Pony's battle and painting the toenails on his dinosaurs. He knows the eating habits and natural predators of obscure animals from around the world. And he loves to organize his toys. Physically, he's got some of me and a lot of his dad. But he also has all of my wife's sarcasm and her love of cuddling.

Despite being his own person, he is also the reflection of us to the world. This really became clear to me recently when Tracy and I styled our own separate Mac photoshoots. What I love most about Mac is his bright and inquisitive nature. I love to see him in bright colours. And since I am on the dorky side myself, I am also more likely to dress him in sweaters with elbow patches. On the other hand, Tracy loves when Mac does impressions. She is fiercely proud of (and takes credit for) his sense of humour. And so, when we each dressed him, this is what happened:

And so I wonder, which Mac is the real Mac? Ultimately I think that the answer is both and neither. At the tender age of 4 he is a little bit of each of the moms who are raising him. He is the innermost parts of ourselves that we want to present to the world. And he is himself - that autonomous being who is just figuring out his likes and dislikes. The sweet kid who will grow into his own person. However, one thing is certain - being able to witness and participate in this forming of a human being is, and continues to be, an immense privilege. And I am very grateful for it. 

Want to see more photos from both shoots? You are in luck! They are below. And if you are in Ottawa, Ontario and want photos of your own little ones please check out my family and unposed personality galleries. 

On Being the Mom He Knows

At the top of our stairs there are two photos from our wedding. One with our wedding party and one of just Tracy and me.

Sometimes Tracy likes to look at the photos with Mac and point out the people he knows. But when they get to me he throws a fit. 

"I don't like Ma like that. I don't like Ma like that."

Because the me on my wedding day looks little the me he sees everyday. My hair was longer (both naturally and thanks to the extensions my hairdresser clipped in for the side-do she created). Also, it has a big feather and rhinestone clip in which is not my usual around the house style. Instead of a t-shirt and pants I am wearing a long white dress. I'm thinner and tanned. And my nails are weirdly long. In that photo I am not the Mama he knows. 

"I don't like Ma like that. I like Ma like ttthhhhaaattt." He says while pointing to my current mom look. And although he's said it a bazillion times it finally clicks with me. I like to have my picture taken when I look like I did on my wedding day (you know, when I've spent months prepping for that one day of photos and I'm only about 65% authentic). But Mac thinks I'm much more beautiful when I'm chasing him around the yard in an old t-shirt. 

And those are the photos I should be taking. My reluctance to actually be in photos with him these days is robbing him of the memories he'll cherish. He may one day like to look at the photos from his moms' wedding but he won't remember those women. He'll remember us as we are today. And we should really be providing him with more photographic evidence of these days. 

So yesterday, at the park without make-up (or chapstick apparently) and in a t-shirt, I asked my wife to take a photo of Mac and me. Which, predictably, went horribly as he had exactly zero interest in sitting still long enough. But we'll keep trying. This summer I will be in more photos with my son. As the mom he remembers. Y'all can hold me accountable. 

Happy belated Mother's Day. I hope it was everything you wanted it to be. 

Making Memories

My earliest memories come sometime after my third birthday. My mom was pregnant with my brother and I remember her big belly. I remember it as only a child can - from the underside. My memories only reach three and a half feet tall. Standing on the green carpet leftover from the seventies, my mother's hand on the bottom of her belly asking me if I wanted a little brother or a little sister. I wanted a sister so badly. And I was young enough to believe that my wanting it would make it so. 

Tracy thinks her first memories come some time later. She doesn't think she can remember the time before school started. When it was just her and her mom at home. She remembers feeling homesick at school and trying to hold back tears while sitting cross-legged on the carpeted kindergarden floor. So she knows there must have been happy moments to be missed. But they escape her. 

Mac is just two and a half years old. I feel like I have lived a lifetime in those months. The transition from myself to his mama was swift and brutal. It was beautiful and joyous. In one traumatic and miraculous day my new life began and I've done my best to preserve every memory since. Some with cameras and some etched onto the surface of my heart. But it occurs to me that, of this entire life we have lived with our precious son, he will likely not remember any of it. There will be photos and this blog. Some of it he may "remember" in that way that we create memories from keepsakes even though we didn't have the original recollection. But he won't actually remember the kisses and the hugs or the tickles and the laughter. 

Still, we try anyway. Mac has developed a love affair with a big purple dinosaur named Barney. There is a movie, that has been played countless times in my house, that is a recording of a Barney performance. I watch that movie with my son and long to give him that experience. To bring him to a show and watch him dance in the aisles, singing the songs he knows by heart at the top of his lungs. But his love affair with Barney has been facilitated through Netflix and old episodes. Did you know that Demi Lovato and Selena Gomez played friends of the big purple dinosaur as children? Me neither. These episodes are old. Barney is now a retired rockstar and google did not reveal a farewell or comeback tour. 

Then one day I was flipping through an issue of Parenting Times  and saw a full page advertisement for  a live Barney show in Ottawa. Well, actually, it was an ad for The Baby Show. But Barney was going to be there on stage. I blacked out the weekend on my schedule and waited for showtimes to be announced. As springtime photo shoots filled my calendar I kept the weekend as free as possible. My kid was going to see Barney! 

The day arrived and we headed downtown. Slow traffic and blocked roads, the result of a bicycle race, meant that we didn't make the 11 AM show and instead would wait around for the 2 PM show. But we were not deterred. The small town girl in me still feels like she is being kicked in the stomach when she has to pay city parking prices. But what's the cost of a mid-level bottle of wine in comparison to my son seeing Barney!? 

We got there early. Each taking turns holding our front row seats while the other browsed the Baby Show booths. I made the decision to leave my camera at home this time. With it in my hands I am constantly searching for the right light, the best angle, and sometimes that means that I miss what is right in front of me. I decided I would snap a few quick photos with my phone and let the rest write itself on my heart. 

Tracy and I were giddy with anticipation. So much so that tears welled up in my wife's eyes at the excitement of being able to bring her son to his see the purple dino of his dreams. I only found out about this after when she turned to me and said "did you cry a bit before Barney came on?" And when I gave her a quizzical look she said "ya, me either." And then added "don't tell anyone that." Which sounds like "I double dog dare you" to a blogger. 

Before long Barney was on stage singing the songs Mac knows by heart. But instead of dancing in the aisle as I had imagined he would he crawled onto my lap and sat stoically. All of my attempts to get him dancing and singing were met with "no Ma." The experience was overwhelming for our boy and he was just taking it all in. 

As the tiny groupies rushed the stage for their moment with Barney we asked Mac if he wanted to get closer. He was unsure. And then the homebody boy after my own heart said "Ma, can we go home and watch Barney on my TV?"

It wasn't the heart-exploding moment of sheer joy I had hoped for. And yet this morning, after sleeping on the memory, he woke up excitedly proclaiming "You remember Ma? You remember when Barney touched my head?!?" And, for now, the memory of seeing Barney on stage is a magical one that he will tell everyone about for months to come. 

Although he likely won't remember the day, as the months turn to years, it will live on through my wife and me. And I like to think that even though he won't be able to access the details of these early days in tangible ways they will still exist in some way in his heart. And when he has his own little ones someday he will know what these years were like. He'll access that part of his heart and thank his moms for the memories he can't quite remember. Like I should probably do right now. Thank-you Mom and Dad.  



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Did you skip over that bit at the beginning about voting for us (Mondays with Mac Photography) at over at  Ottawa Wedding Awards ? If so we would so appreciate your vote! And if you have already voted for us then thank-you so much taking the time - it truly means so much! 

Just One Kiss Mama

I sink into the corner of the couch. Legs pulled up to my chest. Phone resting on my knee. But the lack of space between my thigh and my torso always makes my son nervous. Nothing else should ever be on my lap but him. And when my lap disappears he wiggles his little arm into the empty space and pushes until there is room for his body. 

"Up please." The squeaky voice of toddlerhood. His many demands are now bookended with please and thank-you. 

Diego is on the TV screen and Facebook is in my hand. Our attention is diverted but we connect as I mindlessly stroke his soft hair. His legs curl until he's a ball of love on my lap. My thumb scrolls past a newsfeed of baby announcements and the gym tales. His body bounces and he pushes his fist in the air "vamanos!" 

Without thinking I rest my head on his and kiss that tender spot that still sometimes smells like baby. Which he is not. Seventeen kisses later he jerks his head away and turns to face me. A tiny crinkle forms between his brows. "Ma, why do you always give me so many hugs and kisses? I like you to stop doing that and just give one. OK?" 

And so it begins. My baby is putting limits on my mamahood. A one kiss maximum rule is implemented. And it takes everything in me not to hug and kiss him to infinity and beyond. This is the tragedy of parenthood. Your job is to teach them to grow up and away from you. And it's both joyous and too painful for explanation. 

This tiny human is understanding expectations and setting boundaries. He's negotiating. He's becoming someone. Not just my soft and gushy unformed being but his own person. I'm proud. And terrified. 

The next morning I greet him with "good morning" and before my lips touch his cheek he reminds me. Like a stern elementary school teacher with an important homework reminder. "Just one kiss Ma. Just one."

His lips are chapped but he wipes the balm away as quickly as I can apply it. In the car the dryness burns and his squeaky voice makes his discomfort known.

"You need stop the car and kiss my owie." He demands. And then remembers, "please."  I tell him that we are nearly home and as soon as we get there I will put cream on his lips. But he doesn't want cream. He wants a kiss. And immediately. We go back and forth until finally I remember that I'm not actually in a hurry to get home and pull over into the nearest parking lot. I open his door and give him, just one, kiss firmly on the lips. 

"There. That better," he says. And he means it. To his mind there is still magic in my kiss. The power to fix chapped lips and skinned knees. He believes that my love can heal his minor afflictions and like the velveteen rabbit that belief makes it real. 

And although my kisses are now being limited, I'm relieved to know that, for now, they are still magic. And as he's counting them I'll be sure to make each one count. 

There is no blog today. Well, there's this one. But it isn't much.

The outlook wasn't brilliant for a blog post today
The photographer was busy editing so the bills she could pay
Clients were waiting patiently for images of their faces
And photographer Kristin was working hard like a pony at the races

Every spare moment is spent in the darkroom that is digital
Time keeps slipping by and deadlines are getting critical
There is much to blog about once when autumn comes to an end
I hope you'll bear with me until then my dear blogging friend

Somewhere on the internet bloggers are writing with delight
Stories are sharing somewhere, and posts are in your sight
And somewhere moms are laughing, and somewhere children shout;
But there is no blog here today - photographer Kristin's time is out.


I'll be back. I promise. Just not today.

Happy Monday All!

Oh, and how about this totally unrelated photo of Mac and his BFF to make this post seem less pathetic?