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A portrait of my babes once a week in 2015 (18 months)

The mornings take on their own rhythm. We wake up slowly, usually all in bed together by now, unwinding from sleep, squinting eyes to the sun streaming in from a crack between the curtains. Nappies are changed, and in amongst baby bodies organising toiletries on the bathroom floor, and requests for pillows and tooth brushes and stories, and games of peek-a-boo in our cupboard, grown up pyjamas are discarded, faces are washed, teeth are brushed and mama gets dressed. On the weekend you brew coffee with papa and read fairy tales about giants, still ruffled and crumpled and hair awry. Sometimes he plays guitar why you scurry around with your hand-me-down dolls or push each other in your wooden trolley. Water is put on to boil. Oats are poured. Breakfast begins.