I’ve struggled with this past week; for no other reason than I lost interest in documenting the minutiae of my days. 

I have three beautiful boys, and one of the promises I made to myself when they were born was that I didn’t want to waste time on my phone. 

I have too many friends that try to get the perfect photo. ‘Look this way! Smile! Say cheese!’ I don’t want to be that person. I have a couple of photos in frames on the bookshelf, and they’re beautiful photos. But I don’t like them. They were given to us as gifts. They weren’t nice days. They might be good photos, but the memories behind them are strained. 

Instead I prefer the frame of the boys holding a hen each, sheer delight on their faces, brotherly love evident in the closeness of their blond heads touching. Or my middle boy running towards the camera out of the sea – the smile on his face so genuine it makes me smile myself every time I catch sight of it on the way down the stairs. Or the one of two of them in garish plastic rainsuits pretending to have been grabbed by the hand of a sculpted wooden giant in some local woods. 

Documenting every day spent outside is fruitless. We’re outside all day every day, to the point where I often look at the sofa and question how many days it has been since I last sat on it. I’m pretty sure Muttley spends more (prohibited) time on the sofa than I do. I didn’t start this blog with the intention of writing, ‘today we went….and then…..because….and she said…..’ 

I love to write. I write because it pains me not to. It leaves me empty; my mind chaotic and jumbled. Yet 30 Days Wild left me feeling like I was writing for everyone else but me. What am I trying to prove? That I know how beneficial being outdoors is? That I need to justify my compulsion to be outdoors? That I need to prove I can write for 30 days straight? That I’m a good/fun mum? 

No. I need to be a mother to my children – my children that say ‘why are you taking another photo, mama!’ Exactly! Why am I taking another photo instead of actually just enjoying this fleeting time with the gorgeous boys I’ve been blessed with? They’re worth so much more than the streams of conciousness I scrawl in the early mornings with the day dawning around me. 

It’s summer, and summer is made for rising with the sun. It’s for being braless and fantastically dishevelled (in a bohemian rather than the-great-unwashed way, obviously). It’s for soaking up the sun, endless hours outside, relaxed schedules on schoolwork and house-cleaning. A glass of St. Emillion with the last of the day’s light washing over your upturned face. 

It’s not about feeling tied to something that was meant to be fun. 

And I’m OK with that.

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