My life is divided into two very clear and distinct parts: life before the boy and life after the boy.
And I suppose I consider myself a child in so many ways, still. I live an extended adolescence, to put it mildly. My son doesn’t refer to me as a grown-up… I’m mum. And his mum is not grown up (as he has declared at multiple points). Being 29 and childish… well… it’s not the path most travelled.
When I read today’s topic, I knew immediately what I wanted to photograph… my son’s teeth.
I am my son’s memory keeper, now. He’s forgotten things that happened when he was really small… and that is in my brain in the myriad of photo albums. As the morbid one of his father and I, I frequently wonder what would happen if I left this world without him understanding the memories and the reasons that we did things. Every year on his birthday, I share the stories of his birth. He laughs about the fact that he was born during the Simpsons!
The teeth… the teeth are part of his childhood and another symbol of letting go. And remembering. And childhood. And belief.
My childhood memory: When I was 18 and was a tooth fairy. The face painting kind. With pink hair. The end.