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I’m a mommy blogger. Naturally, my main subject is my main man, Max Murphy.

But marriage is so intimately tied to motherhood – you know, if you manage to survive the turbulent toddler years without killing each other – that my husband often creeps up in my writing. Not unlike the way he crept up into my bootyliciousness some eight years ago at a club downtown.

In spite of inevitable marital disputes, I try to respectfully hold back on the husband bashing. But I reckon after two consecutive long weekends of fishing, golfing and drinking, followed by a night out with his friends that delivered his hairy ass home at 4:30am reeking of George Street sausage dogs and whores – he’s fair game.

See, some husbands must endure the wrath of the wife who nags, yells, throws things, and generally freaks her freak.

And some husbands are subject to the wife who gently types. La la la, I’m typing, I love to type, typing in my favourite.

He needn’t know that with every key softly pecked I’m stabbing someone with a rusty butter knife and a smile.

Not that he even reads this thing. He probably just scans it for the words “husband” and “Andrew.” Maybe he should also start scanning for “douchebag” and “tit head,” starting right now.

See, I found some photos on his camera. Photos of him and his fishing buddies spooning in a tent, lovingly feeding each other beans from a can, and getting jiggy under the light of the moon.

Just kidding.

It was actually much, much worse. Brace yourself. The photos were… NOT. OF. ME. Gasp!

I mean obviously he didn’t take any photos of me on his fishing trip. Because I was not there on the bloody fishing trip. I have bigger fish to fry, thank you very much.

My point is – he never takes pictures of me. Ever. Not pictures of me. Not pictures of myself and Max together. According to the camera roll on his iPhone, we don’t exist. Not even the George Street pirate hookers get to see how cute we are.

I mean, God forbid he acknowledge my classic ginger beauty with an art form that does not include slapping my ass and yelling “giddy-up!”

Maybe if I had three months to live, he might consider immortalizing my image with a camera. I mean maybe. Possibly. If he didn’t have anything better to do. As long as it’s not fishing season.

But it’s not that he doesn’t take any photos. Oh, he takes photos. Of fish. And fish next to beer bottles to show how big (and photogenic) said fish are. Now that’s something special right there.

I’m always the one behind the lens. (What – producing an heir wasn’t enough? Now I am also the sole photobiographer of our lives?) There are so many snapshots of Andrew and Max, I was able to make an epic slideshow for him for Father’s Day.

Number of pics of me and Max? Four. And all four of them were taken during this scene:

There’s nothing sexier than a cow right after she calfs. I’m surprised I wasn’t the one snapping the pictures here – newborn in one arm, Nikon in the other, knob in an armchair across the room eating a popsicle.

Let’s go upload this sweet-ass birthing suite snap to my Facebook and watch as the number of would-be suitors pours in like afterbirth into a bowl.

I’m being a dramatic sloptart. Obviously Andrew has taken more than four photos of me in our time together.

He has taken five.

And here’s the kicker – all five of them I had to ask him to take.

There are few things in life I love more than begging someone to take my picture. I mean, it just makes me feel so humble and modest and not at all obsessed with my own face. He sighs, giving in. Now that’s a sound that really makes a girl feel beautiful; just let me take my clothes off right now. And my smile as he carelessly snaps the picture – it just doesn’t get any more genuine. And look at the sparkle in my eye…

That’s not a sparkle, honey. That’s a volt of electric rage. I made you a fucking slideshow!

After he takes the shot, he hands the camera back or pockets the phone immediately. That’s it, one shot. No need to see how the ol’ cow turned out. I could have had my eyes closed, my tit hanging out, anything. It doesn’t matter. He exerted so much energy, depleted every ounce of creative juice with this one act of photographic genius, he couldn’t possibly take one more for good luck.

And just to clarify so all you bushpigs out there don’t come at me with comments like “get over yourself,” I’m not asking him to take my picture because I think I’m hot as balls. I’m asking him to take it so that, in the event of my untimely death, Max will know I bloody well existed! Is that so much to ask? How much do you remember from age three? Exactly. If I die tomorrow, all Max will have to remember me by is a mop of red hair, this silly blog, and a handful of crappy photos.

But I’m not going to give up on my other main man just yet.

Next time our little family finds itself someplace magical, with the salty Atlantic breeze tossing our ginger manes to and fro, the setting sun casting the perfect golden light on our freckled faces, I will give him the opportunity to make his move. I will give him the chance – about 45 seconds – to stop taking pictures of his balls and emailing them to his friends, and start taking pictures of something bigger. Something beautiful that, sadly, just won’t last.

Enough with the tadpoles, honey. It’s time to take a picture of allllllladis. The catch of your freaking life.

Douchebag.

Tit head.

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