Close your eyes. Imagine you’re driving past our home at 6:30 this morning. We live on a busy road, so there are a few cars behind you.
As you descend the hill, you spy a disheveled mother with tangled hair in half-bun, probably some sort of braless, one half cup of below-average coffee coursing through her blood. She’d pulled the bin liner from the kitchen trash can moments before.
Noticing a small tear on its side, she discarded this warning sign as she hobbled to the front door with the too-full trash bag in her arms. Batting her 2-year-old away from the front door with a nudge of the foot, she entered the outdoors, approached the trash can that lay waiting on the roadside. In the distance, the screech of brakes as the garbage truck threatened to arrive before she could deposit their final bag. One. Last bag.
Peeling the lid of the trash can open with one arm, she caressed the tearing trash bag in her left arm, noticing the laceration had grown substantially. On opening the lid, she found two cardboard boxes, not broken down, taking up space for what should be the final trash bag. “Dammit Adam,” she mumbled from under her coffee-laden breath, heaving the cardboard boxes over the side to make way for the tearing bag. [CONTINUED IN CAPTION]
With a mighty yell she heaved the overburdened bag above her head, and it was with this force the trash bag’s tear met its final match. With horror she watched the gap expand and closed her mouth in time for a cascade of week-old soup, improperly sealed poop diapers and various house things to fall across her body.
Screeech, the sound of the garbage truck’s brakes rounding the corner.
Screeeeeeeech, the sound of two children inside fighting over a stegasaurus.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAhhiothtihta, the incoherent garble of mess that escaped the woman’s lips as she picked the pieces of trash from the road, cars swerving to avoid the thing they weren’t sure was a laboring sasquatch or undercaffeinated mother.
On her way back to the house, covered in mess and stinking of last week’s cauliflower experiment, she let herself in to the shower as a toddler covered in something mysterious followed her close behind. Dabbling off the remainder of her defeat, she checked her messages. Adam.
“I’m sorry!” it read, “If it makes you feel any better, I just had a sprinkler nail me on the way back from the shoot”.
It did not make her feel better. It did not make her feel better at all.
But… (SEGWAYYY!) this shoot did. These Maui couples portraits at sunset in Wailea are bright and full of life, and freshly blogged so go have a look and sea. Have a beautiful weekend, everyone!