32/52 – Favourites

A portrait series of my children, once a week, every week, for the next year.



Anakin: A stolen moment of quiet.



Isis: Our little Bright Eyes. You are just so beautiful it takes my breath away.

These are definitely two of my favourite portraits so far.

31/52 – Happiness in little things

A portrait series of my children, once a week, every week, for the next year.



Anakin: While shopping for new clothes: “I want a Batman.” “We’re not getting any new toys right now.” “No, I want a Batman shirt. That one, with a cape.” Who can argue with a boy wanting to be a superhero with a cape? I surely can’t. Go be a hero, little man!


31_52_Isis_webIsis: You love showers. While your brother loved his baths you definitely prefer showers with me. I fall crazy in love with your excitement. As soon as you’re undressed and understand it’s time to shower your little legs start kicking and you flex every muscle in your little body in anticipation. Afterwards I wrap you in a towel by the window and you watch the wind in the trees with a smile on your face. Happiness is so easily found in the little things.

30/52 – Family

A portrait series of my children, once a week, every week, for the next year.



Anakin: A visit from grandparents is a treat for us all. Every morning you’d wake up at the crack of dawn (like you usually do) and grandma would be the first thing on your mind. You’d get up, run in to where she was sleeping and crawl into bed for a cuddle. She took you swimming, to the zoo, read you books and smothered you in the kind of love only grandmas can. And it was so good! This time grandma brought one of your cousins to your great joy. You were so enthralled by her, always wanting to do what she did and be where she was.


30_52_Isis_webIsis: Weekends are easily my favourite. It’s the time when pappa usually has some time to spend with us and with you. He misses so much of everything that goes on with you, it all happens so fast and usually while he’s at work. I adore listening to the two of you chatting on the sofa, catching up and getting some much needed one on one.

29/52 -Little Lights

A portrait series of my children, once a week, every week, for the next year.


Anakin: Reading in the bright afternoon light. You have no idea how much I love seeing you like this. So peaceful, so lost in inner worlds that are yours and yours alone. I know those places. Feed them and they will take care of you. 



Isis: You shine so bright. On dark days I look at you and wonder how something so bright could grow where something so dark lives. Perhaps you came here to guide me, to tell me that even when all feels lost I have already won because I have you, my sweet children, to pull me back in and show me the way of the light. 

28/52- Remember this

A portrait series of my children, once a week, every week, for the next year.


Anakin: The day before I took this picture I came across a drawing you’d done while tidying. For the first time it was clear to me what you’d drawn without any explanation, there was no mistaking it for anything other than a car. The day after I asked you if you wanted to draw some pictures with me, curious to see this new skill in action. First I drew a dinosaur for you which you helped me colour in and then I asked you to draw something. You sat in silence while putting carefully calculated lines on the paper. “Is that a T-Rex?” I asked. “Yes, mummy, it’s the skeleton!” And there it was, a fossil of a T-rex clear as day. I asked if you could draw a face and you did. Suddenly you’d mastered the translation of images to paper. It blew me away. 



Isis: I want to hold on to all those little things about you that I know I’ll forget too soon. The way you kick your legs in excitement, how your body goes all stiff and rigid in anticipation of something funny and the way you fold your hands across your chest when you smile. Or how you rub your legs together when I take your socks off and that cheeky look you get when you go to grab my glasses. The way your face lights up at the sight of my hair as if it holds magical powers, the way you rub your face into my shoulder when you start to get tired and how you turn your head towards me when I rock you to get even closer. How you eagerly open and close your mouth when you know there’s food about to be served or how you burrow your face into my breast as if it will force milk out faster. I want to remember it all. 

27/52 – Attitude

A portrait series of my children, once a week, every week, for the next year.


Anakin: You are full of attitude, for better and for worse. You’re getting more aware of your own image and some days you are near impossible to take a photo of. And I have to learn to respect that, respect that you are ultimately in control of whether you let me photograph you or not. One of these days the tables will likely turn and I’ll be the one pulling faces or running away. (But since you’ve already broken two cameras I say we wait another few months before we try giving you number 3.) 



Isis: Forever exploring and figuring out exactly how you fit into this world. Some days you are quiet as a mouse, others you let the world (or me at least) know that this volcano harbours violent eruptions too. 


After a few weeks without a laptop (YIKES!) and even longer living in a house full of sick people I am finally getting back to posting these. Bare with me while I still try to wrap up June… (yep, you read right. June.)

26/52 – Imagine

A portrait series of my children, once a week, every week, for the next year.


Anakin: “Look! I’m Lightning McQueen!” I could see it as soon as you said it. The red face, the windows making up the eyes. You have boundless imagination and vision. Watching you lose yourself in those worlds for ages thrills me. I don’t know where your life will take you or what you’ll want to do with it but I sincerely hope you hold on to your creativity and to that fire. 



Isis: So much determination for such a little girl. Already strong-willed and wanting to do more than your body allows. Some days I wish you would slow down and just snuggle in. I know I will miss this time so much once it is passed. I’ve loved you forever but it still seems like you just arrived yesterday. 

Just let me slow down and take you in. 

25/52- Darlings and babies 

A portrait series of my children, once a week, every week, for the next year.


Anakin: “Are you ok, my darling? What did you say, my darling?” Oh how sweet you can be, your words echoing ours. So gentle with such a big heart. Until you’re not. “You’re a baby!” is your first and so far only insult with an occasional added “you’re not my best friend!” Then as the day grows long and you grow tired you turn to me in bed and say quietly “You like me.” And I say “Yes, I most certainly do. You’re my favourite boy in the whole world and I love you no matter what.” You fall asleep and when you wake up in the morning you roll over to me and say confidently “You like me! You’re my best friend. And daddy’s my best friend and Isis is my best friend.” There’s not a thing in the world that will ever change that, my love. Not a thing. 



Isis: That little hand waving in the sun. Your happy feet kicking around making the chair bounce as you wait for someone to smile at. How you make my heart burst with joy. 

The long goodbyes

I hate long goodbyes. When I say long I don’t mean goodbyes that drag out but saying goodbye to loved ones you won’t see for a long time and that live far away. Those goodbyes. I’m no good at them. I just can’t get them right. They leave me full of wants, needs and regrets. And usually in tears. Some are definitely worse than others.

So this morning I had to say goodbye to my mum. Again. The mum goodbyes are the worst. She lives in Norway and I live in Australia. It’s not as easy as a Sunday drive to say hello. I always need that last hug or that last kiss we never share. Then there’s that last wave that usually doesn’t happen because goodbyes are killers and none of us want to let the other one have to see the pain so one of us turns away at that critical moment as the car drives out of sight.

It’s marginally easier being the one who leaves. For me at least. If I’m the one leaving I’ll quickly become (or make myself) busy with what needs to happen next. Airports, check ins, kids, all that stuff. But if I’m the one staying… whoa. And this morning was such a time. My husband and son took my mum and my niece to the airport. The baby and I had to stay because there was simply no room in the car. As soon as the car drove off I just kind of tipped.

Our house feels strangely foreign and empty when someone I love leaves it. I walk around aimlessly looking at the places they occupied searching for pieces of them left behind. As if it will miraculously make them reappear. With my mum her smell usually lingers for a while but never long enough. It’s this lotion she uses. It just smells like her, safe and cozy. I make strong connections between people and their smells. Today I have a baby that smells like my mum from those last hugs. She probably won’t get a bath today so I can hold on to that smell for just a little longer.

Goodbyes are awful.  Suddenly I’m a child with children of her own desperate for my mother’s embrace. I feel lost and for a couple of days I find myself having to revisit all the choices that created the physical distance between us. But the answer is always the same. I can’t go back. I can’t sacrifice myself to be closer to my loved ones. I have to remember who I was before I left and who I am now, and the battles fought to get to this point. Going back is something I may not survive. It sounds melodramatic, I know, but severe depression is no joke. I came closer than most people know to not surviving the time I lived there and I just can’t put myself in that darkness again. My brain just can’t handle the extremes and I just can’t give up finally being on the way to doing what I want with my life. My children deserve a healthy, happy mum even if it means we have to make big sacrifices. And my mum knows that. I know that. But it’s still heartbreaking. And it still hurts like hell  every now and then.

After ten years it would only be natural to assume goodbyes would get easier. They don’t. If anything they’re harder. And I know they will only keep getting harder and in some years they will reach a peak of almost unbearable as my mother at some point will become an old lady unable to travel across the world as much as she does now. (It’s still a long time away, mamma!) Our distance means there are many realities I just can’t think about.  The what if’s and the when’s have to be kept far away. It means we have to carry a lot of hurt and longing in our hearts but the distance also shows how strong our love is.

Today was a little harder than it has been. Partly because it’s the first time she’s left me as a new mother of two, partly because this time there was no time for just us and because I’ve been ignoring the fact that the past two years have been an uphill battle and I’m completely depleted. I failed to really acknowledge the ledge I am hanging on to until my safest haven left. Because that’s what most mums are, the safest place there is, a haven between two arms to seek shelter from raging storms. So today the sound of every airplane above has left me in tears. Today has been a battle of its own.  Today was full of regrets. Things I wish I’d said, things I wish I’d done (more of).

I love you until eternity, mamma. And I miss you every day.

I’m sorry it has to be this way.


Thank you for coming to see us. Thank you for helping out and for everything you do for us.

Thank you for letting me go, for never holding me back and for always being there when I need you the most.

(Sorry for posting your photo without permission. You’re beautiful.)

All my love, always. xx


24/52- Night and day

A portrait series of my children, once a week, every week, for the next year.


Anakin: Your imagination knows no boundaries. (I make no excuse for the messy bathroom!) 



Isis: Sweetest perfection. 


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