susan hayward photography

Missionary Man: Connor Rawle

Spent a lovely evening photographing this dapper young man. Good luck in New Zealand Connor!

 

Snow White is in the House

Snow White came back for a visit--and a tea party. I know there are a lot of photographs. But I couldn't help myself. As the mother of boys, I don't get many opportunities to do girly-girl things. When these girls showed up in all their finery I started clicking away, following Snow White around the house like her personal house elf.  

Then, if that weren't enough, someone looked out the window and said, "There's a train!" And sure enough, when we opened the door, there it was. Everyone got a ride around the block. It felt so much like Disneyland that Snow White said, "It feels just like home." I think it was even better.

    

Welcome to the Wedding

 

To Be Continued

In case you've wondered, I'm not dead or on vacation. I've been working on some photography jobs and entertaining my kiddoes. As this was the first week of summer, they have wanted to hang out with me more than usual. Before the novelty wears off, I decided to focus on them more than the blog for the next little while. I do love my boys. Especially when they leave me messages like this:

Though I thrive on compliments, this is the best one I've ever received. It makes my heart melt. 

I will write more frequently. I promise. Really. No, seriously, I will.  

High School Graduate: Madelyne Sudol

Had a lovely time photographing Madelyne Sudol yesterday. What a great model! You have a great future ahead of you, Madelyne. Thanks for a fun marathon photo session!

The End of My Secret Life

Last night I counted up the days until the kids get out of school and discovered I have less than a week until my sanctuary becomes a bustling metropolis of summer vacation mayhem. “My secret life without the children will be over soon,” I said to my husband. “And I don’t know what I’m going to do with the kids for three whole months.” My husband lay on the bed playing his hand-held electronic Yahtzee game.  “Uh-huh,” he said.

As I untied my shoes I repeated myself. “You know, I won’t have six hours a day without the kids all summer long.” Still no real response from the bed, only the faint blip and trill of the game. I once joked to my sister that if a woman prefaced everything with the word “sex” she’d always get a man’s attention. I considered using this tactic with my husband. But then, I’d run the risk of that being the only word he heard, and possibly the only thing he wanted. And I just wasn’t in the mood.

So I settled for talking to myself, which is often pleasant enough, but can sometimes feel too one-sided when you need advice. If you ask yourself, What do you think? you usually already know the answer and wind up where you started. It’s like an awkward first date. What do you want to do? I don’t know. What do you want to do? This was one of those times.  When it became apparent that my husband found Yahtzee more interesting than my whining, I gave up and went to sleep. After all, I hadn’t expected him to come up with any real solutions to my summer problem. I just wanted him to commiserate. But I had forgotten that to him, working full time as he does, summer is just a change of temperature, not a change of pace. But to me, summer means the end of one part of my life and the return of another. For the last eight months I’ve spent my time living like a teenager during summer break, doing—or not doing--exactly (for the most part) what I wanted to do: baking, photographing, writing, avoiding housework, thrift shopping, and spending countless hours in the library and bookstores. In four more days that will all come to an end. When the kids come home for summer it’s back to work for me.

But is that such a bad thing? Maybe a little more time with kids would enhance my creativity, not deplete it. Kids see, hear and taste things that we adults do not. Though I didn’t realize it at the time, when my kids and I spent all day together, they showed me how magical and delightfully simple childhood can be. Take, for example, a short piece I wrote when the kids were preschoolers and I eavesdropped on their conversation with a little friend from the neighborhood. 

Here’s an excerpt:

“We walked home from school today, Calvin, Paul, Laurel, and I. Calvin and Laurel took the lead while Paul and I followed.

“Sometimes we ride our bike here,” Laurel said. She gestured to a large parking lot surrounding our church building.

“Sometimes we ride our bikes here,” Paul repeated, tugging on my hand.

“My legs hurt,” Calvin threw in.

“My bum hurts,” Laurel said.

“Your bum?” Calvin looked at her in concern. “Is it from doing somersaults?” 

“Yes, it’s summer,” Laurel replied. 

“Do you want me to do a somersault?” Paul hollered to them from our place behind.

Such is child communication. I don’t know how they ever understand each other. Yet I wonder if it’s the sound of their voice, the amazing ability to make audible their thoughts that delights them more so than mutual comprehension. 

Laurel opened her mouth wide and sucked in the wind with a loud gasp. “Look! I’m breathing in air!” she said. Of course Calvin and Paul had to try it, too. I hung behind, watching. The moment was better from the outside anyway. The children laughed, big gales of belly laughter that caught the wind and shimmered in the spring breeze. 

Paul wiggled his hand out of mine and squeezed himself onto the sidewalk with Calvin and Laurel. I was alone then, living in a different planet, one inhabited with silly worries like clean houses and tidy yards. Is there some way to widen the pathways so I can be in on the fun? That would require too much letting go on my part, and right now I can’t see beyond the bills and the chores. But there are times when it would be wonderful to journey back to the little girl I once was, the girl who climbed trees, reading book after book while a highway of ants traveled up and down the limbs next to her. The girl who caught grasshoppers in a jar and watched them hop against the glass. There are times when I like that little girl more than the woman I’ve become.”

The essay ended there. I read it over twice, then typed it here. As I did so, my summer plans came into view. What would happen if I climbed trees again? What’s the harm in catching a grasshopper or two, just to see if they ever blinked? What’s wrong with reading books? I do like popsicles. And I think Slurpees are twice as much fun, what with how they can turn an ordinary pink tongue into something garish and almost frightening. Also, playing in the sandbox sounds infinitely more enjoyable than scrubbing the kitchen floor. Could it be that giving myself over to summer with children would be good for me, and maybe even good for my kids, too?

Instantly, I begin to make a to-do list. After all, I’ve only got a few days left of my secret life and I’ve got to make the most of it. Before the kids come home I have dozens of ideas to record in my notebook, stories to write, restaurants to try, pictures to shoot, and plans to put on the shelf.  Then when my kids burst through the door after their last day of school, I’ll be ready. “Welcome to summer,” I’ll say, handing each kid a popsicle, “Let’s go have some fun.”