The Sling Diaries, Volume VII. A photo-documentary chronicling the art of baby wearing in the lives of families around the world. Over the course of six months, Sling Diarists will create their own Sling Diary though a series of diary entries interpreting a unique theme given to them each month.
Meet all of our Sling Diarists here.
Some nights when the air gets a warmth to it that’s strictly from humidity and it feels like maybe it’s going to rain a little or maybe the earth is just vibrating a little like Mother Nature caught a buzz , I think about what it would be like to light a cigarette again. I could tell you about the party years, the drugs I did, the constant running , the constant hovering of a finger over my self destruct button.
I could describe the first time I fell in love or what I thought was love and how it felt, or how now when I think of that time I just see a man naked eating a peach in the middle of the desert, that fuzzy outline the only thing I allow myself of that moment in space, to keep it sacred, and leave out the bad parts.
I could tell you about the night I met Moses' father, he was wearing a tan sports coat, it was his father’s, vintage he said. I could tell you about when I gave birth to Moses and I sat in a hospital room alone with my baby, and nothing had ever happened to me before, that’s how it felt then. That I had had no life before that moment with my son. I could tell you about the ways I tried to get back to some piece of old me in the months after I gave birth, lost weight, dyed my hair, smoked a cigarette, none of it felt as good as giving myself over completely to motherhood.
I can tell you about the day I met Steve, when we made eye contact for the first time and one word very clearly ran through my head “shit” because I knew I was in for. I can tell you about the night we were making love and very clearly saw lightening strike the snow outside my window and in my head I thought “she’s here” out of absolutely no where and a month later I was pregnant.
I can tell you about my son and how I know every character in the Cars universe, not just Lightening McQueen but Bobby Swift the purple car on the race course. I can tell you about my daughter and how she smells like flowers and strangely sharp cheese and how now when I’m away from her, even if it’s just the other room and I smell cheese I miss her, in a longing way.
I could tell you about all the hard stuff the scary stuff, the years when I never wanted to be home, or had no home. But I would much rather tell you about the home I have now, it’s not so much a place as it is three people.