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Archive for February, 2013

Feb 17 / Caro

Project 365 – February’s First Fourteen

I’m way overdue for this update, but at least I’m still taking pictures!

Feb012013

Special Kiss! When he is in a particularly loving mood, Thomas doles out kisses very readily. The only problem is that in Thomas’s world, kisses are delivered to the nose, accompanied by nomming actions. We call them “special kisses”.

Feb022013

Thomas helped himself to the fork I was using to cut up his pasta, and then proceeded to eat the whole meal with it!

Feb032013

Running around in B&Q. Thomas selected a lampshade that was in rather dubious taste, and tried to make off with someone else’s trolley. Going to DIY stores used to be boring!

Feb042013

Little Picasso – artwork from nursery

Feb052013

More artwork! This time a card for Great Grandpa.

Feb062013

Bum defence. I’ve already written about this lot, here.

Feb072013

Swings! The giggles whilst he’s swinging are infectious. We had to brave the semi-flooded park to get to the semi-flooded playground. Lots of mud underfoot, but the biggest advantage was that despite blue skies, it was almost deserted. Which meant we go to swing for ages!

Feb082013

Bedtime stories from Daddy, with Mr Cow the comforter.

Feb092013

Hospital visiting. the expression on Thomas’s face is priceless. I have no idea what he was annoyed about, but he’d been having a fun afternoon of opening (and emptying) cupboards and drawers that he shouldn’t have been it, and driving his cars across the floor, complete with nee-naw sound effects.

Feb102013

If Thomas could speak, he’d definitely have been saying “Noooooooooooo Mum…. geroff me! What if my friends can see?!”

Feb112013

Ian and I took a trip up to KCH for my “report card”. All was well.

Feb122013

Thomas was supposed to be going in the bath, hence the lack of trousers. Daddy does the majority of baths though. He usually gets through the door just in time for bath time, so it’s Daddy-Thomas boding time. Ian was late tonight though. And Thomas was definitely searching for him!

Feb132013

The beloved broom. And the washing machine’s not bad either!

Feb142013

Valentine’s cards from my boys!

Feb 13 / Caro

This Place Called Motherhood

I’ve realised recently that a strange thing happened to me when I became someone who reads “Mummy Blogs”, (which is very distinct from becoming a parent, by the way). It was that I became someone who pretty much only reads “Mummy Blogs.”

No, actually, that’s wrong.

I still read plenty of blogs about subjects other than parenting. I have blogs categorised by lots of subjects in my RSS Reader App of choice. But in all the other categories, I have blogs by people from several different countries. When it comes to diabetes, for example, we may talk in different units of measurement for blood glucose levels and have different health care systems which affect our access to care and technology enormously. But what we actually do day-to-day rises above that. We have enough in common that where we live doesn’t often matter at all. And what we have to say is usually much more important than how we say it.

When it comes to parenting, however, I’ve realised that I’m reading “Mummy blogs” but not “Mom blogs”. Because all of the parents I follow, and regularly read, are British.

Why is that?

Does parenting, and the process of being a parent not transcend international borders?

In the UK, we don’t send our kids to “Daycare” or “Kindergarten” but to nursery and pre-school. Nursing is something we do to the sick, whilst breastfeeding is something we may choose to do for our children. We change their nappies, not their diapers. And we don’t become “Soccer Moms” or drive Minivans – or at least, we don’t call them that.

But that, much as with diabetes, is just superficial. It’s just the language of parenting. The act of being a mother? Surely that is something that no geography can divide?

In fact, it’s something that language – any language – can’t even define. I hate it when I hear motherhood being described as a “job”. It’s not a job, but not simply because it has no contract, pay, or clocking off time. It’s not a job because it’s something else entirely. It’s its very own thing, and we don’t have a word for that, other than “mother”. Why try to define it any other way?

We’re all mothers, speaking different languages, operating within different sturctures, but all facing the same challenges, searching for the same triumphs and wondering exactly how we got here and just where exactly we are going to end up. Becoming, and being, a mother is such a fundamental shift for a woman that no national identity or culture can override it. Underneath it all, we were all once very different individuals, with different experiences, different objectives and different priorities. But once we became mothers, we gave all that up in pursuit of happiness for our children. No matter where we were before, now we’re here, in this place called motherhood.

That’s not to say that we’re all the same when obviously that’s not true. We still have different motivations and goals, and do things is very different ways. But each and every one of us is different to the person that we were before. We’re all experiencing, in our own ways, a transformation driven by the enormous love we feel for our children. The feeling that we’d do anything for them. That wherever we go and whatever we do, we’ll always carry them with us in our hearts.

Love is perhaps the most complex concept known to human kind. And it’s the thing mothers across the world have in common. What we are doing is so much more important than how we do and the words we use to describe it, or how our culture chooses to try and describe and define it.

It’s time for me to look beyond the words and language, beyond the locations. I need to stop focusing on the differences and instead see the similarities. Motherhood should transcend geographical boundaries, because motherhood it it’s very own special place.

Feb 11 / Caro

TTC With Diabetes

This is a post that I’ve been hesitant to write, because in some ways it feels a bit too intimate. Laying all my cards on the table opens me up to expectations and people asking me if I’m up the duff yet. I do wonder if it would be better to wait, and simply make an announcement when it happens, at a stage in the pregnancy that I feel comfortable to do so. But at the same time, this is something which is very important in our lives right now. It’s a part of our journey with Thomas that I didn’t really record, and this time I want to remember what it’s really like.

So here we are. We’re officially trying to conceive.

Everyone knows what trying to conceive involves. Plenty of frequent bedroom antics in the hope that a single sperm reaches the elusive egg. It’s important for everyone to take the best care of themselves that they can, and take their folic acid to reduce the risk of neural tube defects.

But diabetes has the potential to throw a huge spanner in the works when you want to make a baby. From the moment of conception, higher blood sugars than normal increase the risks of miscarriage and birth defects. The only way to mitigate these risks is to have the best blood glucose control possible.

But that isn’t always that easy. Diabetes is beast that isn’t that simple to tame. Everything that you can think of, from food to exercise, stress to the weather has the potential to affect your blood sugars. And of course blood sugars have the potential to affect pretty much everything in your life. That includes your hormones and hence, your cycles. And the more regular your cycles, the easier it is to conceive.

If you’ve read my entries from my pregnancy with Thomas, you’ll realise that I was quite obsessive about keeping good control, and would have done anything and everything to keep him safe. But back then, diabetes was pretty much my sole focus. True, I also had a stressful full time job, but now I have a stressful part time job and a demanding toddler, as well as diabetes which an be just as stressful as the job, and just as demanding as the toddler.

I have a feeling that things will be a lot tougher this time. But yet, somehow, I want it that much more.

When I was pregnant with Thomas, hearing about people desperate to conceive their second or third child always made me think “But at least they have one child already. It’s not the same as wanting your first child”. I couldn’t understand how the desire could be so great as for a childless person. It’s true that it’s not the same, bu tnot in the way that I thought. Now I don’t just want a child for myself, I want a sibling for my son. And I feel more pressure and in a much greater hurry to get pregnant because I don’t want a huge age gap between my children. To the point that I was ridiculously disappointed not to have conceived in my last cycle as it was my last opportunity to have a second child before Thomas turns two. I realise that two under two would be making life hard for me in so many ways, so please no one point that out. It was just a milestone for me.

The first stage of pregnancy prep for a person with diabetes is making sure that those blood sugars are good enough. In effect we need to be given “permission to try” by our doctors. Of course no one can dictate what you do, and there is no forced contraception, but it’s done for the best of reasons. I’m on board with that. The crucial test is the HbA1c, which reflects control over the previous three months. (For any geeks, it is percentage of haemoglobin molecules which have been glycosylated – or have glucose attached to them. The higher the average blood sugar, the higher this percentage will be. And it covers about three months as this is the approximate life span of a red blood cell.) For non-diabetics, the range is somewhere between 4 and 6%. The advised target for women wanting to become pregnant is less than 6.5%. See above for all the factors that affect diabetes if you think that is remotely easy to do for the majority of women with diabetes. It takes hard work and commitment every single day, and through the night too, since diabetes never sleeps.

This morning we made a trip to the hospital to receive my latest “report”. It’s ridiculous, but I was nervous to the point of feeling dizzy and sick. I want this so much that I was petrified my control would have slipped and we’d have to stop trying. I want this, but I also want it with the minimum of risks. Ian was ever patient, trying to calm me down and point out that I’ve hovered around 6% since Thomas was born, and there was no reason to think that would have changed.

Except the month I spent without my CGM when the transmitter died and i was waiting for a replacement. Except the mild excesses of Christmas. Except the afternoon highs that have plagued me for the last few weeks.

I felt as nervous as if I was going in to an exam. And in a way, that’s what it feels like. I know that the number is just a number. That it isn’t a reflection of my self worth. It’s just a number which doesn’t represent failure. It’s just a piece of information to help me look after myself the best that I can. But even though I know all that, it still felt like so much was resting on this.

When we were called through to be seen, the very first thing I asked, before I even said hello, was “What was the number?”

The minute it took to get the results up on the screen felt like it was going in slow motion. And then came the answer.

Six.

And I turned to Ian with a massive grin, not even caring that he’d won the bet and been closer with his guess.

I felt the kind of elation that comes after finishing exams and knowing that there is no more revision but sudden freedom.

Except, diabetes doesn’t stop. It’s a relentless animal.

I have to keep doing this over and over and over. I have to keep doing it always, but especially whilst we try to conceive. There can be no slacking. No coasting.

While other women obsessively track signs of ovulation and time everything with precision, I’m obsessively tracking my blood sugars in pursuit of not just a pregnancy, but the healthiest pregnancy I can mange with the complications of my chronic health conditions.

That’s how trying to conceive with diabetes is different.

Feb 10 / Caro

Fifteen

Dear Thomas

You’re one and one quarter! It feels like you just had your first birthday, and I’ve no idea where the last three months went. It’s been a busy month again for you though, as you grow and change every day.

You’re walking more and more, and even beginning to run now. You run towards with your arms out stretched for a hug, big grin on your face. Or sometimes just with your arms above your head, like E.T, which makes me giggle. You’ve started walking outside now too, although you’re a little unsure. You’re fiercely independent though. You want to go where you want to go, and won’t hold our hands. On a trip to Bluewater you made everyone, even strangers, smile as you ran around in circles. You took yourself in to random shops, including a hairdresser – perhaps you were telling us that you wanted to get your mad curls cut. When we put your little dinosaur backpack with the reins on, you stand still and shout until we take it off or pick you up.

At the Park

Digger

You’ve got the hang of climbing off the sofa now, but your legs are still a bit short to climb back on. It doesn’t stop you trying though, especially if you are in pursuit of the cordless phone, which is your new favourite non-toy. You shout and try to grab it whenever we make a phone call, and if you are allowed to get hold of it, you will press random button until you dial a number. You even managed to call your Grandma and Grandpa as the number is saved in the memory. If we put the phone high up on a bookshelf out of your reach, you press the paging button on the base unit to identify where it is, and then look longingly up at it.

We can’t leave you alone for a minute at the moment, as you’re so in to everything. If you had the chance, you’d be sending random emails from my iPad, deleting programs recorded from the TV, smashing our crockery and emptying every shelf, cupboard and drawer that you can reach.

You feed yourself almost all of the time now too. You very much want to do it yourself, and push us away. Sometimes you want help though, so that you can shovel it in faster, as your appetite has been absolutely huge lately. When you’ve had enough you clearly indicate it to us. As well as saying “nah”, you now shake your head whenever you don’t want something – such as being restrained from running away or having your nappy changed.

Ravioli with a fork

Messy face

Sometimes these days I get the impression that you prefer nursery to being at home. As soon as we arrive, you run to the door and knock to be let in. You run off with barely a backward glance for your Mummy. I love to see you so independent, but it makes me realise how much you’re growing up. Perhaps you’ve been preferring nursery because they have a broom there, which you still carry around all day and are apparently very possessive off. If they get out the big broom to sweep up after food, you follow them round, sweeping as you go. We finally had to relent last week and buy you your very own broom after you had a tug-of-war fight with your cousin Saskia over her broom. Now sweeping the kitchen floor will be your job!

Broom

Your other favourite toy this month has been your Happyland train, which you happily set driving all over the living room with a variety of different drivers including aliens and animals. You also love your singing nursery rhyme book and your singing dog which your Great-Grandpa bought you fir your first Christmas. You dance along to the songs and hug it, sometimes even when it says “hug me” – but more by coincidence than design I think. You’re learning to build towers and are really good with your shape sorters now. You love Mummy’s old post box shape sorter which you carry to us and demand to have opened to get the shapes out so you can put them back in. You mostly do the circles and the letters, but it’s amazing how you select those ones from all the others and know exactly where they go. Sometimes you seem to have the attention span of a gnat, but, but at other times you’ll do things like the shape sorter over and over again until Mummy and Daddy are practically crying with boredom. But we still play, because you are having fun!

Post Box

You spread your toys far and wide throughout the downstairs of the house, and we’ve become adept at trying to avoid them, and avoiding swear words when we accidentally step or sit down on a rogue Happyland alien or piece of Duplo. There is also a high risk of leaving with a piece of toast stuck to your behind if you visit our house!

We have to watch we say around you, as your language and understanding are definitely developing. You understand “no” but choose to ignore it. You also understand open and close, and nappy change time – when you run squealing away from us! You say “up” and point up all the time and still sing the “up above” line of Twinkle Twinkle. The animal sound of the month is “baaaaa” and that has definitely overtaken “moooooo” in popularity.

Throwing is a new skill this month, as is the start of pretend play. You will pour out cups of tea and drink them, occasionally giving one to other people. Whenever you do something that you are proud of, you grin, giggle and clap your hands enthusiastically. Sometimes you run a victory lap of the living room, clapping as you go! You’re turning in to little Picasso too, as you’ve got the hang of scribbling with a crayon, as well as just making random dots and lines.

Painted Plate

You’ve taken to carrying books around to give us to read, and taking them from one of us to give to the other to read all over again. You can be over enthusiastic at times though, and the flaps of several lift-the-flap books have succumbed to your destructive little fingers. One barn door in Oh Dear! Is hanging on by one hinge and the other has been clean ripped off.

We had some snow this month, for only the second time in your life, and this was the first time you were really aware of it. You weren’t too keen though, although we did get a smile out of you when Mummy hit Daddy with a snowball. You also didn’t really like sleep all that much again this month, with you deciding that you didn’t need any naps on certain days and refusing to fall asleep on your own at night. When we left you with your Grandad while we went out, you stayed up playing and wouldn’t go to bed until you finally fell asleep in his arms.

Snow

Despite your outgoing, boisterous nature, including your ongoing tendency to smile at anyone and everyone, you can be quiet and contemplative at times. I sometimes catch you staring off in to space, as if trying to figure out some complex puzzle. I wonder what is going on in that little head of yours as you make sense of this crazy world?

As always, my love for you just grows and grows,

Love Mummy xxx

Kiss face

Feb 7 / Caro

A Raw Bum Deal

Today, I learned more about penises than I probably ever thought that I would. I also had one of those moments that I’m sure most mothers have experienced, of sheer, utter panic. And I cried. In a slightly snotty slightly irrational way, simply because I couldn’t find anything else to do.

But first, let’s rewind….

Thomas had never had nappy rash until after his first birthday. I hope I was never one of those smug cloth bum mums, but I definitely do think cloth nappies helped because the only times he had even a hint of redness were times when he’d had a disposable nappy on.

But then he turned one. And his bum turned raw. At one point it was covered in little spots, which bled, and absolutely bright red. At it’s very worst, he had open, weeping sores. And I felt terrible, as a mum, that I hadn’t prevented this and was struggling to get rid of it. It definitely wasn’t down to a lack of frequency of changing, or improper cleaning, but I still somehow felt responsible.

For a few weeks, we seemed to take two steps forward, and then two back. We’d get rid of the spots and just have the redness left, and then he’d come home from nursery with new sores. Or he’d go to bed with it looking much better, only to have flared up again by morning. Somedays he’d do a corker of a poo (still pretty squishy, thanks, I think, to breast milk) and despite changing it within the time it took to whisk him to a changing mat (the squatting and grunting are a dead give away when he goes!) it would set everything back to almost square one. We tried a variety of “tried and tested” and recommended remedies, all of which helped but none of which completely eliminated it. We let him run around nappy-less as much as feasibly possible. We even used hydrocortisone!

In the end we gave in, and used Metanium, the one thing everyone seems to swear by. And that meant ditching the cloth for a few days. Most creams aren’t very cloth friendly, because they clog the fibres, decrease absorbency and are a pain to wash out. Metanium, with it’s ability to stain everything within a 3 metre radius, is a definite no-no for my lovely cloth nappies. And I was skeptical, wondering whether the effect of the Metanium would be cancelled out by the effect of the disposables. But despite the fact that Metanium contains nothing of any note, it really worked. Within 48 hours, Thomas looked as though he had a new bum.

Cream Army

Since then we’ve seen redness creeping back a few times, but managed to keep on top of it.

Last week though, the end of his penis suddenly started looking very red. It had happened once before when he was much younger, and the health visitor who happened to see at a weigh-in, said it was normally just caused by pressure from nappies, and just to put some Sudocrem on it. We used the more cloth friendly Burt’s Bees, but it did indeed go away. So seeing it again, we tried the same thing.

But this time, it didn’t work.

On Tuesday morning, I opened his nappy at five minutes to nine and couldn’t believe my eyes. The end of his penis was no longer just red. It was like a balloon. It was bright red, but stretched white at the very tip and sort of crusted over. Unsurprisingly he screamed when I went near it. And that’s when I panicked, at least internally, just a little bit.

I reacted in the obvious way. I put a new nappy on, and then called our GP. But of course at five minutes to nine, it was far too late to get an appointment for that day. I should have remebered that your urgent medical problem that needs dealing with that day actually needs to have started the day before! I was told to try tomorrow or call NHS Direct. The answer from NHS Direct was the same answer they always give: you need to see a doctor, so best go to A&E. I wasn’t taking my 15 month old son to A&E other than as a last resort.

So that’s when I cried, because I couldn’t figure out what else I was supposed to do. I felt terrible for Thomas, and terrible that as his mother I couldn’t see a way to sort it out for him. This is the very first time he’s had a problem that I was worried enough about that I wanted to get it seen as soon as possible. It’s the first time since those early newborn days, when I truly had no clue what I was doing, that I’ve felt really panicked.

But of course, I was the only one who could sort it out for him. It’s one thing having a problem yourself, and waiting to get it sorted, or just accepting that you can’t see a doctor so you’ll soldier on. But Thomas can’t talk, can’t tell me what’s really going on or how he feels. It’s the job of a mother to do everything you can to hep your child. So once I collected my thoughts, I rang the GP back. I got a more helpful receptionist who said she could get a doctor to call me. And 90 minutes later, after a five minute phone conversation, we were on our way to the surgery to be seen.

Of course, as a woman, I haven’t got a frame of reference for what Thomas was experiencing, but the male GP visibly winced when he took a look, and told Thomas that he didn’t blame him for being a bit of a grumpy guy. The fancy medical name for what he has is balanitis, which literally means inflamed end of penis. I learnt a whole lot more about baby boy’s genitalia in the course of our consultation. It turns out that it’s probably caused by thrush, but we’ve had swabs taken to check for anything else. The swelling I saw was almost certainly urine trapped under the foreskin. Even without a frame of reference that makes me wince. But fortunately it had released itself, and so far we’ve had no recurrence.

We’re hitting it hard with prescription cream, and I’m strip washing all of our nappies and wipes, although even the GP agreed they weren’t to blame. And I’m suppressing the fear, since thrush can be a symptom of high blood sugar levels.

I feel like Thomas has had a bit of a raw deal with his bum since his birthday, and I really hope that this is the end of it. The bottom line!

Feb 4 / Caro

Diabetes and My Son

I was going to entitle this post something like “The Fear That Diabetes Might Affect My Son”. But then I realised that although he doesn’t have it himself, diabetes has affected Thomas almost since the moment he was conceived.

He managed to dodge the higher risk of birth defects, and the increased weight gain that comes from exposure to extra glucose in utero. But he was still evicted from my body by medical intervention before he, or I, were ready for it. And consequently he came in to the world through the sunroof, rather than by the more conventional route. No matter how much the medical profession debate it, we still don’t know all of the potential long term effects of being born by caesarean. An increased risk of developing diabetes is, ironically, one topic under scrutiny. If anything should crop up that could be related to the mode of delivery, then ultimately I’d have to attribute it to my diabetes too.

But it didn’t stop after the birth. My diabetes put Thomas at risk of low blood sugars in the early hours of his life as his pancreas tried to adjust. Fortunately he was fine, but as a result of the risk he endured heel prick tests in those precious first hours. I know they didn’t really hurt him, and he’ll have no memory of them at all, but as a new mother, those pricks may as well have been pricks through my heart and I couldn’t help but cry as his screams pierced the delivery room. If it weren’t for my health condition, he’d have been left in peace to enjoy his first feed. It was my first taste of the guilt that comes with being a mother. I felt, however irrationally, as though I personally had hurt my child. My brand new baby.

Since then, diabetes has cropped up infrequently, yet persistently, in Thomas’s life. There have been times when I couldn’t feed him, no matter how imploringly he looked at me or how much he pulled at my top, rooted around or screamed at me, simply because my blood sugar was too low and I needed to sort myself out first. Likewise there have been occasions where I have had to leave him to cry in his cot because I wasn’t safe to pick him up and carry him down the stairs. It’s heart breaking to say no to your child when they want to play because your head is full of cotton wool and fingers tingle with numbness from a low blood sugar. Or when you head bangs a beat and your tongue is drier than the dessert for the opposite reasons. There are tear stains on the pages of one of Thomas’s books, from the time that I cried when the words swam in front of me and I knew I couldn’t read to him.

I know that, once again, Thomas is too young to remember these things. In the grand scheme of things, they won’t matter at all. He may look at me with an expression of confusion and hurt, and he may stick out his bottom lip, or even scream at me, but I know that ten minutes hence all with be forgiven with a cheeky grin and a big hug. And I also know that I sometimes I have to put myself and my health first in order to be the best parent for my child. Anyone who thinks that sounds selfish doesn’t live with chronic health issues, or more specifically, with diabetes.

But knowing those things in my rational brain doesn’t stop my heart from hurting each time diabetes edges in to a moment of motherhood. It doesn’t stop the omnipresent mothering guilt from eating away at me. Diabetes is an impossible beast to control perfectly all the time, but that doesn’t stop me pressuring myself to achieve the unachievable in order to give my son a childhood where diabetes does not feature at all.

If it’s an impossible dream, though, I want the only diabetes that affects Thomas to be mine. Not his own.

And no matter how strongly I feel the guilt about the impact of my health on my parenting or relationship with my son, it pales in comparison to the strength of my fear that one day Thomas may be dealing with this too. It’s a fear that on a day to day basis I fold up and squash deep down inside me, right next to the place where I lock away any hope of there one day being a cure. But from time to time it rises to the surface in a rolling boil that I can’t temper or tame.

It’s usually provoked by something that might a seem completely innocuous to other parents. Like the time I arrived to collect Thomas from nursery and his key worker mentioned “He hasn’t stopped drinking today”. A “normal” parent would probably put it down to a virus, a sore throat, to hot weather or the fact they hadn’t drunk much the day before. Immediately though, the fear is stalking me that this could be the beginning. The first time his nappy leaked in months and months, down to it being completely saturated in only a couple of hours, I didn’t care about the extra washing or change of clothes and I didn’t rush online to find out how I could better boost his cloth nappies to prevent future leaks. Instead I let the fear swallow me up.

So far, however, I haven’t acted on my fear. I haven’t pricked his heel, or toes, and tested his blood sugars. I haven’t pressed urine dipsticks in to his nappies to see whether there is any sugar lurking there. I’m determined to try to keep this in proportion. To remember with my head that the scientifically calculated risks and probabilities are on our side, even if that means nothing to my heart. Because if I spend his entire childhood watching him with fear haunting my gaze, that will be just as bad as actually living with diabetes.

A phrase that crops up a lot in parenting circles is “I don’t care, as long as they’re healthy”. It’s always said with the best of intentions, but as time has gone on I’ve realised how much I hate it. It often seems to imply that the speaker somehow wouldn’t be happy with their child if they weren’t healthy. I know it is not what is meant, since no one wants their child to be ill, or to live with a chronic health condition, but it’s what the phrase makes me think. I can tell you now, though, that one thing is for sure. If it happens, I’ll love my son just as much as I do today. And it will be my job to make sure that even if he is living with it, it still impacts his childhood as little as humanly possible.

That’s the best that I can do.

Feb 4 / Caro

Late to the Party – Me and Mine – January

I came across the Me and Mine Family Photo Project, started at dear beautiful, last Thursday and enjoyed a blog hop around looking at all the images which had been shared.

I thought about maybe joining in, and started to look back through the hundreds of images I’ve captured during the first month of my 365 Project. After several long minutes I realised that I had to join in. Not because I’d discovered some beautiful family portraits including the three of us that I felt happy to share with the world. No. I had to join in precisely because I didn’t find anything. Not a sausage.

Like the other participants, I’ve discovered that we’re supremely rubbish at capturing shots of all of us together. And like other participants, that makes me sad. I want to be able to look back in years to come and not just see a sea of pictures of Thomas, but also see how we were as a family at different points in time.

Although I’ve already taken on a 365 Project this year, I think this could compliment it quite well. So this is my commitment to making sure that at least one picture each month is one of us as a family of three.

The shot I’m sharing here won’t win any photographic awards. Thomas isn’t even looking at the camera. But it’s the single picture of the three of us together that I have from January. It was taken by my father-in-law last week whilst we were at Ian’s sister’s house for lunch. The only highchair in use by or youngest niece and Thomas clamouring for food, I decided to sit him on my lap to eat at the table. I’d forgotten to bring a bib, so he’s wearing a borrowed one. It is actually quite representative of us as a family… muddling along through!

Me and Mine Jan

I’m late to the party because I needed to acquire the image from my father-in-law before I could share it. But next month… next month will be different!

 

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