Clearly, it’s been about 25 years since my mother wrangled
two children into an Olan Mills to get pictures taken. Judging by the tone of
eagerness and excitement in her voice, portrait studio visits must be
comparable to labor in the grand scheme of motherhood: over time you forget the
pain and enjoy the end result.
In 25 years I’ll be glad we went. Right now, I think it’ll
be 25 years before we try again.
The six year old was a dream getting ready at home. It’s
nice when they know how to dress themselves and can follow directions (when
they choose to). The 18 month old somehow turned this into 20 minutes of cardio
that would leave Jillian Michaels sweating and panting on the living room
floor. And that was just getting her dress on, we didn’t get to hair yet.
I’d like to mention, Grandma hadn’t arrived yet either. She
wisely showed up about 5 minutes before we had to leave the house – so no prep
work for her. I’m writing that move down in my book of “Things to do to my
children as revenge when I’m a Grandma”, its right underneath “pay for them to
use that TV cart through the grocery store”.
I grabbed the comb and an easy hair clip for the girl and
got the kids in the car the minute Grandma showed up.
When we got to the studio, the boy started practicing his
smiles. They the most plastic looking faked things of all time. And he couldn’t
do them without closing his eyes. Great. As soon as the girl saw the
photographer, she erupted into tears. I’m not sure what she thought the lady
was going to do to her, but she was petrified.
We get into the room where she screamed and cried and would
not get within 10 feet of the photographer. And I had to remain within 1 foot
of her at all times. We spent a lot of time cropping my legs out of pictures
later that day.
The rest of the day resembled what I think gets edited out
of The Biggest Loser day one work outs. Two grown women jumping up and down in
outrageous manners, sweat pouring down them, making crazy faces, while someone
sits in the corner and screams and cries (I’m referring to the girl, not
myself). Finally, we told the photographer to just keep snapping and we’ll do
what we can.
Half our pictures feature a screaming baby and a boy with
the fakest forced smile ever plastered on his faces as he nervously glances at
his partner in crime out of the corner of his eye. Another 49 percent of the
pictures feature that same fake smile, but this time a very mad little girl
clearly giving us all a stern talking to for this torturous afternoon.
But there, in the remaining 1 percent, was one perfect
picture of a happy, sincere little boy and his sweetly smiling, calm, happy
little sister. Looking precious and perfect and angelic. It’s the kind of
picture that comes in picture frames when you buy them. I snagged that sucker
up, secretly happy that mother had decided this would be fun.
I also dropped the cash for one of the fake smile screaming
fit ones. Someday, 25 years from now, someone’s going to tell my why they don’t
want to take my grandkids for pictures. And I’m going to show them why they owe
it to me to get it done.
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