31 December 2016

A portrait of my babes on the last day of the year, 2014 (1 year, 5 months)

A portrait of my babes on the last day of the year, 2015 (2 years, 5 months)

A portrait of my babes on the last day of the year, 2016 (3 years, 5 months)

How wonderful each year with you is. 

52/52 2016

A portrait of my babes once a week in 2016 (3 years, 5 months)

We spent our Christmas holiday with our whole family on the Natal coast. I get nostalgic returning here – the smells of the tropical vegetation under foot as you make your way down to the beach through a jungle-like canopy, the sticky feeling of salt water drying on your skin, and the sight of tropical leaves lining every street bring back so many memories as we create new ones with you. Our barefoot days were spent going to the beach with the kids piled in the boot of the car amongst umbrellas and boogie boards and buckets, dips in the pool, late afternoon walks on the golf course, long swims in the sea, and and early mornings with the smell of the ocean and suncream more than hinting at what the day will hold.

My favourite thing about holidays is the carefree days. Shoes are abandoned before breakfast,  naps are a little bit longer, cousins are joined at the hip as endless play takes them from the house to the beach and back again, fingers are always a little sticky from big, fat litchis or home made mice pies or a bowl of Christmas pudding ice-cream. The smell of sun block permeates the air. Until it rains. And we watched the storm roll in  from across the ocean and blow away our towels hanging over the balcony. Until the next morning when the world appears new and we begin our beach rituals all over again in a cycle of endless days, rolling into one long and happy memory of bare-bodied babes, and ocean swims, and salty hair and sand at the bottom of the bath, and the deepest sleeps from all the fresh air. 

51/52 2016

A portrait of my babes once a week in 2016 (3 years, 4 months)

Our family at Human and Honor's birthday celebration. You are my everything.

50/52 2016

A portrait of my babes once a week in 2016 (3 years, 4 months)

Gathering flowers in the garden. You love to make posies which you hand to me with great pride. 

"Each of us is like a seed, planted by the Good Gardener so we might grow into something majestic." Seth Adam Smith

49/52 2016

A portrait of my babes once a week in 2016 (3 years, 4 months)

Oh my, how beautifully and quickly you are growing my little lights. Sometimes when you wake up in the morning your faces have changed slightly, or I catch a glimpse of you during the day, usually from a distance and you've lost a bit of baby-ness. And yet, when I search for a change, it is impossible to pinpoint exactly where or how it has occurred. Growing is strange like that.

48/52 2016

A portrait of my babes once a week in 2016 (3 years, 4 months)

Our annual Christmas card photograph. 

47/52 2016

A portrait of my babes once a week in 2016 (3 years, 3 months)

Christmas craft. Doing arts and raft with you inspires me to be more creative. I love watching how you use colour, or position objects, or draw shapes, completely uninhibited by any social contracts and rules that we somehow learn along the way and forget how to unlearn. Thank-you for teaching me to colour outside the lines, sprinkle too much glitter, and see fantastical stories in the most basic scribbles. 

46/52 2016

A portrait of my babes once a week in 2016 (3 years, 3 months)

All the girls and Jack at his christening.

"The circles of women around us weave invisible nets of love that carry us when we're weak, and sing with us when we're strong." Sark

45/52 2016

A portrait of my babes once a week in 2016 (3 years, 3 months) 

The first thing you do in the morning, in your half-sleepy-half-waking-up state, is climb onto a chair, onto a cupboard, and make your way to our desk where you sit and discover whatever curious object catches your interest. 

44/52 2016

A portrait of my babes once a week in 2016 (3 years, 3 months) 

It's hard to capture your silliness, your crazy ways, and funny games. When your silly moods coincide, there is no stopping you. It's like the force of a thousand belly laughs whirling around the apartment, sweeping up anyone who steps in its path.

43/52 2016

A portrait of my babes once a week in 2016 (3 years, 3 months) 

A morning at Beech wood Gardens on my birthday. 

"I do know how to pay attention how to fall down into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass, how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields, which is what I have been doing all day. Tell me, what else should I have done? Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon? Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild ad precious life?" Mary Oliver

42/52 2016

A portrait of my babes once a week in 2016 (3 years, 2 months)

Five little cousins at Jack's first birthday. How lucky you are to have each other. 

41/52 2016

A portrait of my babes once a week in 2016 (3 years, 2 months)

Diving into the dress up box at Kimmy & Bear's house is one of your favourite things to do. This dress up box is full of the same clothes I used to dress up in, so as you emerge from the house adorned in too-big dresses and sparkly hats, memories flash to mind of the pieces I loved best like the silver cloak I wore as a princess, ad the cow girl outfit Kimmy made for a cowboy and Indians birthday party we went to when I was four years old. 

I especially love how you put the outfits together. They are so well curated, so ridiculous, that you can't help but look completely fabulous. 

40/52 2016

A portrait of my babes once a week in 2016 (3 years, 2 months)

Bed heads. 

39/52 2016

A portrait of my babes once a week in 2016 (3 years, 2 months)

I love our mornings together. We've no where to go. We wake up together as peach-coloured day light lights up the room. We snuggle in bed for longer than we should and then, slowly, we get up. I treasure this slow time in our lives.

38/52 2016

A portrait of my babes once a week in 2016 (3 years, 1 month)

I can't easily put into words the relationship you have with my mom, and what it means to me. I chose this picture because even though it's blurred and you can't really see your faces it clearly, the way your arms are wrapped around her says more about the love between you than I could describe. 

37/52 2016

A portrait of my babes once a week in 2016 (3 years, 1 month)

I love how ridiculously silly you two can be. And it seems to be contagious between you, each of you spurred on by the other -  a funny face, a made up song, a defiance of any semblance of order, a bizarre dance move, a "rude" rhyme, a strange noise that you try and repeated because of the laughter it elicited from the other. Your senses of humour  are quote different and yet and you find each other funnier than anyone else.

36/52 2016

A portrait of my babes once a week in 2016 (3 years, 1 month)

If one of you is upset, the other often comes to the rescue. Even if the rescuer was the cause of the tears in the first place. Binkies are offered, or hugs are given, or back rubs and hand holding. Once we reach this point, there is no separating you two, holding each other with consoling words and love pouring out. 

35/52 2016

A portrait of my babes once a week in 2016 (3 years, 1 month)

Happy spring day little flowers!

34/52 2016

A portrait of my babes once a week in 2016 (3 years, Sibon)

"...she remembered watching a summer sunset from this very spot. Not so long ago; just a lifetime."  Sharon Kay Penm

We are back at Sibon, our favourite place in the world. I love watching this place grow in your hearts as you sip hot rooibos tea in the chilly mornings, waiting for the world to wake up, as you think it's normal to see a herd of elephant come down to drink at the waterhole, as you jump into the Landrover as if this is more than just a holiday spot, as you experience the joy of roasting marshmallows for the first time. This place nourishes all of our souls. 

33/52 2016

A portrait of my babes once a week in 2016 (3 years) (Some pics by Lucky Pony)

Your third birthday party can be summed up in a few words - ponies, pink balloons, chocolate cake, and fairies. What a special day, celebrating with special people. Being three is magical. 

32/52 2016

A portrait of my babes once a week in 2016 (3 years)

You both love cooking, whether it's helping Papa make dinner in the evening or helping me make breakfast in the morning. Here you are making scrambled eggs. You crack the eggs, pour in the milk, add the spices, grate the cheese, and stir. In fact my role has been relegated to hot-stove overseer, and toast-maker. 

31/52 2016

A portrait of my babes once a week in 2016 ( 26 July, 3 years)

Alice: How long is forever?

White Rabbit: Sometimes, just one second.

30/52 2016

A portrait of my babes once a week in 2016 ( 26 July, 3 years)

When you were new and tiny, I would often cast my mind to this day, your third birthday, and I was not be able to imagine what it would be like to have two two year olds, or two three year olds. I could picture two one month olds because we were going through it right then and there. But two three year olds! And now we are here and it is beyond anything I could have imagined in my wildest dreams. How much you amaze me, challenge me, grow me, make me laugh, make me cry, teach me, try me, and let me be an intimate witness to one of the most special relationships between two humans. Your third birthday means I have been a mother for three years (and for no time and for all time). And I can't believe my babies have grown and changed and morphed from newborns to little people who are celebrating their third birthday. 

The day started with balloons and presents in bed, and ended that way too. In between you opened presents - we gave you handmade dolls and you got pink tricycles from Kimmy and Bear, you went for a hair cut, we blew out candles, we ate cake, we went for high tea at The Westcliff with the family, and we sang happy birthday a million times. 

Happy birthday darling girls. You are the brightest lights. 

29/52 2016

A portrait of my babes once a week in 2016 ( 2 years 11 months)

This photo is taken in the foyer of our apartment building. A few years ago, all the residents worked together on the paper mosaic on the wall, created by an artist living in the building. On arriving home, I would walk through the foyer and spend some time adding tiny squares of paper to the mosaic. It represents a lot about where we live and the wonderful spirit of community in this building. It's a place where your neighbors know your name, where a dad will knock on your door late at night asking for a nappy as they have run out, where mom's chat way past dinner time, a place where friendships are formed while planting seedlings in the veggie garden. The foyer has become an aeroplane or school room when you play down there, and a garden swing hung outside a friend's apartment has become a place where you've found your wings, learnt new tricks and dared to swing high as you can go. It is a bitter sweet feeling leaving the only place you've known as home. Where the building staff and all it's residents have know you since we first brought you back from the hospital, the place where you've grown into three year olds. 

28/52 2016

A portrait of my babes once a week in 2016 ( 2 years 11 months)

Our new apartment is at one end of a very long corridor. You usually want to run all the way back to the lift after a visit. Your running styles are quiet different - Anna I could describe your's as determined as you insist on being first and try with all your tiny might to keep that position, and Florence, your's as vertical as you prance upwards more than forwards. 

27/52 2016

A portrait of my babes once a week in 2016 ( 2 years 11 months)

We are in the middle of renovating our new apartment. You have been involved in the whole process, from drawing out your plans, to choosing colours, and coming with us to most of the site visits. You get full energy at the new apartment - I think it is because of all the space, and hopefully the feeling you get from the place. As I watch our new home come to life I picture you in all these new spaces - sitting at the counter while I make breakfast, playing in the bath of your very own pink bathroom (although I have no doubt we will all end up in the same bath anyway).

26/52 2016

A portrait of my babes once a week in 2016 ( 2 years 11 months)

On Mondays we meet a group of moms and their babes in our garden. We've been meeting for over a year now, in different shapes and forms, and it has been wonderful to watch you and the other children grow as the seasons change. It is mid-winter now and at the end of the afternoon we take a walk around the gardens, usually ending up at the garden near the golf course, hoping to spot some guinea fowl as you run races, do aeroplane jumps of the steps, chase poor unsuspecting cats, and pick up treasures of feathers and rocks as we go. 

25/52 2016

 A portrait of my babes once a week in 2016 ( 2 years 10 months)

Things I want to remember about now...

Anna

- Your strong, tight hugs as your little arms grip around me

- The way you talk non stop when some one is upset to try and ease the situation

- Your lips curling outward in all sorts of contexts to form, what has become, a trademark expression of yours

Florence

- The way you emphasise your point by stopping after each word in a sentence to build anticipation

- Your distain for threads - loose threads or visible threads - on clothing items (dolls clothes included)

- The way you wake up with a huge smile on face as a little ball of sunshine, no matter how fast asleep you were

24/52 2016

A portrait of my babes once a week in 2016 ( 2 years 10 months), photo by Judith Belle

Breast feeding you has been such a big part of my motherhood journey, physically, emotionally, and mentally. As we approach your third birthday I'm seeing signs that you're starting to wean yourselves. This fills me with mixed emotions - a flood of nostalgia and perhaps a twinge of sadness, but I feel ready if you are. I never want to forget these intimate, quiet moments with you, when I'm feeding you as you wake up in the morning with sunlight visible through cracks between the curtains, or when fall asleep at night. One day, when you are long legged teenagers, I will recall these moments through memory and photographs, and I hope it will trigger an inkling of what I'm feeling right now... how you still feel so small when I nurse you in my arms, even though you are almost three, kissing your forehead at night as you close your eyes, hearing sweet replies to my "I love you's," the ritual of brushing your damp hair after bath, or the way it like three haededas (we joke) had slept in your hair last night when you wake up in the morning with bird nests, the way you either hold hands while I feed you both, or twist my hair between your fingers that look to grown up for three years old hands.