So imagine my joy when I was told that the newspaper I write for wanted to send a photographer and stylist to shoot me and my motley crew to accompany a piece they may (or may not) deign to publish. Add to this the fact that mummy had come down with a horrible throat infection, which left me feeling dreadful and looking like a chipmunk, thanks to my puffed up glands. What better way for my family to be captured for posterity?
Things didn't start well as my five year old ran away from the glammed up me, screaming 'I want my real mummy back'. Presumably he meant the haggard, tired, tracksuit wearing version, as opposed to this woman wearing make up, back-combed hair and ironed, fashionable clothes? I tried to placate both stylist and child while simultaneously balancing on agonisingly painful, too small high heels - it's a good job mums are experts at multitasking.
The next trick was to get all five of us (hubby having sensibly retreated to watch the Grand Prix in the next room) smiling for the camera. Well clearly the babies weren't playing ball as they have yet to master this gentle art. Luckily they did keep their eyes open, probably because they heard the snapper threatening to wipe them down with a cold, wet cloth if they dared to shut their peepers.
The boys were happy to smile, scream, and run around in an entirely uncontrolled manner. I am not sure that's quite what the photographer was after, particularly as they began to destroy his expensive white backdrop - but then he should know never to work with children or animals, and I think that on this particular afternoon my boys fell into both those categories.
At the end of the day we managed to get some lovely pictures of me looking uncharacteristically human, despite my smile becoming increasingly forced as the shoes gradually sliced off my little toes and the boys attempted to dismantle all the photographer's expensive equipment.
Whether the results will ever see the light of day in the paper is up to the editor, but at least I will have some lovely photos to remember our day (and those shoes) by. But I am sure that when the boys look at them in the future they will ask who that pretty lady in the photos is, as she sure as hell doesn't look like their dishevelled mum.