Every morning, the baby wakes up between 6:30 and 6:40 a.m. and holds an in-depth conversation with his stuffed buddy Ernie. Sometimes there’s laughter, sometimes there’s tears, but the convo is usually over by about 7 a.m. when he tells Ernie, “Peace out” and insists on vacating his crib.
It’s followed by diaper changes, nursing sessions, dropped oatmeal, cleanup of said oatmeal, playtime, nap time, walks, parks, walks in the parks, and in an exciting new development—tantrums.
Today, however, I tried a different tactic to make the most of my day. As soon as the first bowl of breakfast hit the floor, I had made up my mind to play make believe, with myself, not my child.
I needed to do something different, be someone different in an effort to survive the monotony of motherhood. I played pretend artist for a few hours, and my photographer persona roamed Loose Park for close-ups of found objects—all the while minding that the one-year old kid didn’t walk off or shove a cigarette butt in his mouth.
As I knelt down and snapped shots of my findings, runners slowed and stared. I just imagined, of course, that they were gawking at the world-renowned photographer Liz Davenport, not some crazy lady shooting pics of sticks.