And lo, thanks to the almighty combined superpowers of Messrs Hashtag and Keyword, those marvellously mystical Twitter algorithms brought us together. Ahhh. It was a match made in digital heaven: I welcomed her into my Non-Mum club and in return immediately signed up to feature in her project. Naked. <Gulp>.

Are you out of your tiny mind, I asked myself? (especially since the rest of me is not quite so tiny). Why would you want to do such a thing? Well, as a childless woman I feel we are underrepresented (and often misunderstood) by society, who regard us on the whole as witches, freaks or cold-hearted cat-ladies. I fully support any initiative that seeks to tell our stories, to push back against prejudice, smash stereotypes and simply depict us as we are: human; complex; flawed – with a back-story, just like anyone else.

Time flew by, as it has a habit of doing; before I knew it I was sitting in the passenger seat of Andy’s car as he whisked us to Brighton for the Sunday morning shoot – shaved, plucked and buffed to within an inch of my life, liberally marinated in self-tan; practising sucking in my tummy without looking like a constipated warthog in the wing mirror.

At the point of setting the date for the shoot I’d started an internal dialogue, attempting to convince my sceptical inner self that we’d be eating nothing but mung beans and courgetti spaghetti in the run-up – the outcome being that I’d regularly be mistaken for Elsa Hosk or some other sylph-like Victoria’s Secret model in the photos. No need to fret about my (Non) Mum Tum or dimpled thighs. Sorted.

Of course we both knew, my inner voice and I, that this game plan was more BS than VS. I was spinning a yarn in my head; I had zero intention of sweating it out at a spin class or sitting at home of an evening farting about spiralising veg. I’d rather gouge my own eyes out with the complimentary chopsticks than exist on vegan bento boxes. It was never gonna happen. Sure enough, the pre-naked-photoshoot “diet” consisted of my usual calorie-laden carbs washed down with prosecco…but on the morning of the shoot I skipped breakfast. Yep, that should do it.

Denise greeted us at the door to her studio in the hippy haven of Brighton and we set about prepping for the money shot. As the women in the sequence must all be photographed in the same way – curled in the reverse foetal position on a bed, shot from above – it was vital that everything was just so. Denise has been working on the series for two years now, gradually expanding her portfolio of images of childless women. I’m number 17 in the sequence, with her target being 66, so there’s a fair way to go. It’s a work in progress; already exhibited at Somerset House in London as well as in Cologne; nominated for a Sony World Photography Award amongst many others and has attracted tons of media attention. Denise, herself a childless woman aged 49, says: “Mum’s Not The Word brings together images of the female form, positioned in the foetal position, in reverse. The foetus is representational of an intimate and introspective metaphysical investigation. It is a posture that relates to the female as reproducer and acts as a metaphor for the seed within and the world without.”

To further personalise the piece, each woman involved brings her own duvet cover, something which I found comfortingly familiar as I disrobed and got into position on the bed. The camera clicked; Denise busied herself around me, arranging my hair, the mattress and the bedding, giving me directions as to the exact positioning of my hands and feet. Andy assisted with lighting; he enjoyed being involved in “creating art” as he put it. A few minor issues with annoying shadows and ugly creases (on the bedcovers, not me, fortunately)….and then we were done!

I got dressed and we gathered around excitedly to check out the photographs on Denise’s laptop. Sure, I had my rounded belly and the VS girls wouldn’t be out of a job anytime soon, but I felt empowered, elated. I was proud of myself; finally accepting of my body and forgiving it for the fact that I’ll never be a mother. I looked perfectly imperfect – refreshing in today’s world of photoshop, airbrushing and adding filters.

The figure in the picture is strong; real; vulnerable; at peace. The figure in the picture is me. Each image in the series is briefly captioned with the subject’s story in her own words. We represent a growing number of women who aren’t mothers for various reasons, but are still valid members of society with a lot to offer; we don’t want to remain invisible.

I may be a Non, but I’m not Anon.

If you’re a Non-Mum interested in taking part in Denise Felkin’s project Mum’s Not The Word or you know someone who may be, please share this blog post with them or contact Denise directly at denisefelkin@hotmail.com. You can also follow her on Twitter and join the Mum’s Not The Word Facebook group. 

Sam x


Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (Life:ABird’sEyeView)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post Mum’s Not The Word appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

There are two halves to most women’s lives, clearly divided: BC (Before Children) and AD (After Delivery). As was the case with Jesus (should you be religiously inclined), welcoming a child into your life causes time to start all over again. Such is the significance. For most, as soon as that second faint blue line appears on the pregnancy test, there comes a complete mental shift in attitude, long before any physical changes are apparent. The carefree, party-til-dawn kinda girl is immediately replaced by a responsible vision of virtue, much like the revered Virgin Mary herself.

Whether the newly-discovered foetus in her womb was the result of a drunken quickie or carefully-planned conception, it makes little difference once the nurturing instinct kicks in. No sooner has the pee dried on the plastic stick than she’s tossing that half-empty bottle of Malbec in the wheelie bin and snapping up the Marlboro Lights in disgust. The devil’s horns of yesterday’s vices are discarded along with the duck liver pate in the fridge, cast aside with the blue cheese and the sushi. Out comes the halo and the wholesome holistic lifestyle. Mung-beans and muesli are on the mummy-to-be menu. For now she is about to enter Life: Part 2.
Shit’s about to get real.

Of course, she always knew this day would come. Usually, it’s a welcome relief. As much as she loved the clubbing circuit and hectic social scene, she was secretly growing a little tired of the accompanying hangovers, the wasted Sundays (in both senses of the word). Now she can decline the invites with a simple sage pat of the tum, without the insistence that “you simply MUST come!”

photo credit

But what about the 1 in 5 women for whom this joyous day never arrives? Those of us who went from dreading a positive test in our younger years, to positively yearning for one later on? Those of us who end up in all manner of awkward positions, mentally and physically, as a steady stream of health professionals peer, prod and poke our vulnerably exposed bodies, shaking their heads forlornly. As the realisation dawns after yet another failed fertility treatment that the day will now never come. What then?

Well, we smile and congratulate every friend, colleague and female relative as they make their announcements, beaming with happiness. We dutifully attend baby showers proffering gifts of baby clothes and toys (or hand over the ones we’d previously bought for ourselves, for our own future families). At this stage, we are still able to contribute to the constant baby-related babble; ironically, having been through years of fertility procedures and spent countless hours researching online, we know more about the subject that most actual mothers.

Later, we hold the gurgling new arrival in our arms, hoping that the mother doesn’t catch sight of the tears we’re fighting to quell. She never does; she’s in a drug-fuelled fug of love hormones, intoxicated by oxytocin.

me with my newborn nephew, baby Hayden

And that’s the tough part.Whilst all our friends are now knee-deep in nappies, busily planning play-dates and lunches with like-minded mummies, us Non-Mums are left smiling along, standing awkwardly on the sidelines of society, our existence barely acknowledged. It feels as though we’re driving the wrong way down the motorway of life.

Everywhere we look we’re reminded of the ease of procreation: in the creche-like coffee shops on our lunch breaks or the many Baby On Board badges on the morning commute, those lucky ladies cheerfully counting down the days until they can wave goodbye to the office politics and welcome their Mini-Me.

Even the single-cell amoebas posing as guests on The Jeremy Kyle Show are reproducing like rabbits. That’s Darwin’s Theory disproved right there. Maybe he meant survival of the fattest, not fittest.

Henceforth follows years of carefully deflecting the endless enquiries of well-meaning strangers:
“So, how many do you have?…..How old are your kids?” ….”Oh, did you not want any?”
Questions that are hard to answer without either choking up, getting into a full medical history or simply sounding rude.

Suddenly, around the late thirties mark, the interrogation mercifully stops, as people become aware they’re now in dangerous waters with those fishing questions. The relief is short-lived, however, as it becomes apparent that the inquisitive look in their eyes has been replaced by something far worse. Pity. Sometimes, other women hint at selfishness : a shallow personality explaining the lack of children. Okay, so I have my nails done and go on holiday from time to time….wanna swap?

It takes time to accept the life unexpected. To move on. Allow yourself to mourn the family you’ve lost; just because there’s no body doesn’t mean there’s no bereavement.

Life has given us lemons, so we’ve made lemonade…and then found ourselves with no-one to serve it to.

So we add ice and vodka.

And rejoin the party.

This post has also appeared on the front page of The Huffington Post UK and at IVF Babble. 

Sam x


Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (Life:ABird’sEyeView)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post Behind The Smile….by Anon (A Non-Mother, that is) appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.