“But where are YOU, Mama?”
Estimated reading time: 10 minutes
“But where are YOU, Mama?”
“I took the photo, little love, I was behind the camera. I promise, I was right there with you.”
She frowned. “But I can’t see you, Mama.”
The usual Monday morning chaos was tearing through the house. I had just found the sibling form for school photo day, two weeks too late. I was heading to the kitchen, ready to launch into a lecture and break up a fight over who was making the lamb bottles when my littlest miss ran at me.
The soft golden morning light spilled through the hallway floor, showing up all the dust and dog hair, mingled with abandoned toys and socks. Another cleaning job to add to today’s list. Even when we’re up at sunrise, the school routine always ends up frantic, no matter how much time we seem to have. The scent of coffee drifted towards us from the kitchen as we stopped for a cuddle. I scooped her little body up, squeezed her in tight, and we paused in the hallway to look at her baby photos on the wall.
Something we do often. She touches the glass with her sticky fingers as we tell the stories of baby Sershy. The time I was folding washing and turned around quickly, my big baby belly stuck out so far it hit her her big brother and knocked him right over. A firm family favourite. Or the way she would twist herself into impossible shapes just to jam that big toe into her mouth, even though she couldn’t stand the dummy I tried to give her.
But this morning was different. At the grand age of three years and two days, she spoke the words I had been chasing for weeks.
I’d been building a marketing plan. Drafting, redrafting, iteration after iteration. Trying to pin down a plan with a message that was just escaping me. Why family photos matter. Why we show up for our kids. Why we get in the frame. Especially, with the world the way it is. Trying to blend the business side with the depth of passion I feel for my wonderful job.
And then, in the middle of the hallway, with her curls still unbrushed and the school run looming, she gave me the message.
“But where are YOU, Mama?”
As always, I was there, but with the camera between us.
Said in her sweet toddler voice, clearer, truer, more powerful than anything I could have written myself, it wasn’t just words on paper anymore. It was the living heartbeat of my work, the why behind it all.
I am a photographer, yes, but even when I’m just their mum and my big girl camera is left behind with my work in the studio, I pull out my phone.
Snap after snap, squirrelling the memories away into my Google Drive.
Bath bubbles stacked on their heads.
Mashed banana smeared across chubby cheeks.
Messy daisy bouquets shoved into my hands with pride.
Seagulls chased with flapping arms down the beach.
All there. All saved.
Three short years of our littlest miss, but a whole lifetime already lived and already archived.
My memories of my babies, safely saved.
But not theirs.
Because when she looks back through all these photos, she doesn’t see me.
“But where are YOU, Mama?”
She doesn’t care that my tummy is soft.
She doesn’t care that my arms feel too flabby.
She doesn’t care that my “nice” clothes are pre-2015, back when I could afford to spend money on myself.
I don’t get in the picture because…
“I’ll look fat. I’ll look tired. I’ll look older than I feel.”
But she doesn’t see any of that.
She only sees me.
“Come on, Mama, let’s have a lady party,” her little voice calls from the bedroom.
Dinner simmering loudly on the stove. The cat circling my feet, quietly demanding food she’ll bloody barely touch. The TV is blasting at me from the lounge, the volume “magically” increasing all by itself, I gave up asking for it down after the fifth time. Sight words abandoned. School bags dumped at the door. My. Nerves. Stretched. Thin.
But then, the voice again.
“Come on, Mama.”
The tea set is laid out with care. Dolls lined up neatly, waiting for mama to arrive and the party to begin.
I sit on the floor, my back twinging and just a hint of irritation simmering as I try to time how long I have before the dinner is ruined. Thankfully, she doesn’t notice. She carefully balances her favourite princess doll on my tummy, the very tummy I tell myself is too fat to be seen by anyone. She bursts into giggles as it bounces and wiggles, like the doll is dancing, and we both start laughing. Everything else forgotten for a moment.
She doesn’t see “too fat.”
She sees a lap that always makes room.
She sees arms that wrap her in safety.
She sees love, silliness, and joy.
And one day, when her mind wanders back, I don’t want her memories to be of the tea parties I was just barely present for. I don’t want her memories to be of me with a camera between us, blocking every moment. I want her to see me there too, loving her.
That’s why we get in the photo with our kids.
So their memories and ours sit side by side.
“I wanna sleep in your bed, Mama.”
She hauls herself up, using the bedside table as a stepping stone. Launches her little pajama-clad butt straight at my face. She wriggles down under the duvet, tummy to chest, with her little arms tight around my neck.
“You pick the song tonight, Mama.” Her voice, thick and soft in my ear.
She shouts “Hurray!” betraying her tired, heavy eyes, as I start to sing her favourite. She brightens just enough at the start of each verse to decide which animal noise I’ll attempt, gentle giggles spilling out as I do my best impressions.
Her eyelids grow heavier with each blink. I trace my finger along the back of her neck, her curls still fluffy from a day of play. She smells like sleep already, sweet and warm from a busy toddler day.
In this quiet, peaceful moment, I feel it. These are the memories she will carry. Me, right here, always beside her. The sound of my voice, the safety of my arms, the feeling of deeply belonging and being oh so loved.
But time is a mischievous thief, and memories blur as the years roll on. The edges fade, the beautiful little details slip away.
What they carry with them isn’t just memories, it’s the feeling. The feeling of being deeply loved, the sense of self, the belonging that we mamas pour our very souls into giving our kids. A feeling that stays, like a hug they can return to when life feels heavy.
The photos I make aren’t posed portraits. They’re not about standing still and smiling for the camera. They’re about capturing the feeling. The squeeze of little arms around your neck. The giggles that spill out mid-spin. The wild curls, the sticky hands, the glow of being safe and seen. That’s what I want you to hold in your hands.
Because there will come a time when our arms can’t be the ones they run to. But the photos remain, holding the echo of that love, ready to remind them of who they are and where they belong.
These photos mean that, as an adult, and maybe a mama herself, she can hold this feeling in her hands. She can touch it and see it with her own eyes, show her own babies, and know it was real.
That’s why we get in the photo with our kids.
So when they look back, it’s not just their story they see, it’s ours, side by side.
That weight of this realisation is what keeps circling back for me. It is why I do what I do. And it is why I built a way to make it easier for families, especially the mums who are always behind the camera, to show up too.
This is why I created my Petite Sessions.
They are designed for busy mums and their families who are always rushing, always juggling, always forgetting to step into the frame themselves. They are short, simple, and stress-free, so everyone can be part of it.
Because these sessions are not about looking perfect. They are about being present. They are about photos that feel like you.
An award-winning, child-led, artistic gallery of images where you are finally there, right alongside your little ones and your partner too.
So one day, when they point at the photos on the wall, it will not be:
“Where are YOU, Mama?”
It will be:
“Look at US, Mama.”
You take photos of your kids for your memories.
You get in the photos with them for theirs.
