The family domain is a type of war zone.
There is the sibling bickering, crying and whining, clutching toddlers with dirty hands, the transport of limp, lifeless bodies from sleepy car rides to cold empty beds, endless piles of used handi wipes from cleaning sticky fingers, car sickness, vomit, chicken pox, ear infections, runny noses, diarrhea and countless boxes of band-aids covering real and imaginary wounds.
This is only the beginning.
When the phone rings and I shift attention away from "being mommy", I'm met with overwhelming resistance. To begin with, there's always an immediate demand for candy and the television appears to have turned itself on followed by an argument amongst the siblings and/or secret excursions into my make-up drawer. In general, dirty laundry is never just a single wash load but a mountain of clothing and a constant hum of sloshing water. The very notion of a full night's sleep, uninterrupted by requests for water or cookies, is inconceivable and a simple trip to the supermarket can become a battlefield of its own.
Mothers know all this.
In 1997, after the birth of my third child, I began to document my domestic life, the mother's point of view, a view rarely seen.
These photographs are real moments.
Some have happened very quickly before I could even see what poetry they held; others have been the result of carefull observation in the aftermath of a moment soon to be forgotten. I see them as a selection of short stories, each picture an individual narrative, an ode to the small celebrations and banal rituals that pass by unnoticed yet here, they are transformed into a visual poetry of a mother's everyday life.