Perusing through the billionty and one photos I took over the Christmas and New Year period and the subsequent weeks of home-with-children-and-doing-all-I-could-to-prevent-boredom-and-homicide I realised something.
This ‘something’ that came to me is not a new revelation. It is, indeed, a phenomena I realise each and every time I decide I’m going to sit down and finally get the bloody photos into some sort of album or order or something that isn’t a box within a box within a box.
It is the occurrence that is SO frequent it could easily be classified an ‘epidemic’; yes, that issue of The Invisible Mother.
I literally have one photo of my first born and I in the first six months of his life. AND it is blurry.
Given I always have a camera on hand, and take gazillions of photos at each event, outing or lounging around the house in our jarmies, the extreme deficit of photos that contain even a portion of me is disproportionate.
That may sound a little narcissistic and if you would like to think that, be my guest.
What I’m getting at is I look at these multitude of memories, captured in photo form of the times we spent together and can’t help but wonder if the kids will even remember that I was there. Will they look at the photos and think “yeah, she worked a lot, she probably wasn’t even there”.
In slightly more morbid moments, I wonder, if I got hit by a bus tomorrow, would they even remember they had a mother at all in years to come? Will they remember what I looked like? Will they remember me?
It’s not about