Picture Day

Yesterday was picture day. Twice a year my daughter’s elementary school  sends  home an envelope announcing that a professional photographer will be visiting the school and taking class and individual pictures.

Alongside the package descriptions there are several sample pictures depicting what your child could look like if you purchase these memorable keepsakes. Well dressed children stare back from these pages perfectly groomed and stain free.
 
I found myself caught up in the possibilities of displaying such nice works of art in my children's scrapbooks. I couldn’t help but think that with a little preplanning and a lot of luck, my own girls could look as perfect as theses “wax like” dolls that stared back at me from the page.
 
I'll probably want to send grandparents some, I decide, and opted for one of the larger packages. Heck, they might be so good the photographer may request to use a photo in an upcoming studio ad! The idea inspired me and I immediately started to make preparations for my perfect pictures.
 
The next morning came early and I pried the sleeping children out of their beds and dragged them to the bathroom already steam filled from the shower I had started for them to share."Wash your hair well" I instructed over the sound of the running water "and scrub off all the tattoos and pen marks or else no one is getting breakfast this morning!"
 
After 10 minutes, I returned with clean towels and tripped over a sleeping Kaila. It was clear that she never made it into the shower but rather crumbled to the floor as soon as I had left. She was now fast asleep in a puddle of her own drool mere inches from the toilet.
 
I hoisted her rag doll body over my left arm and proceeded to remove her PJ's and yesterday's hair bands one handed. This unfortunately created a huge rat’s nest in her hair and resulted in me having to rip the rubber bands out taking big clumps of Kaila’s hair with them!
 
This exercise definitely woke her up and put her in a delightful mood. Ignoring her over dramatic shrieking, I heaved her twiggy body into the air, lifted the shower curtain, and deposited her at Makenna's feet in the shower. I then gave them both a look of warning and held up one hand indicating that they had five minute to wash and get out. I left them arguing over which would get to use the shampoo first and started my search for matching shoes and 'non-holey' tights.
 
After returning to the bathroom for cleanliness inspections, I insisted that Kaila re-enter the shower and finish removing the soap from her hair (apparently she had used 10 times more soap them necessary). I then led them to their individual piles of coordinated and freshly pressed outfits.

 Makenna nodded approvingly at her black dress pants, shirt and trendy black vest and began to dress obediently.
 
Kaila, on the other hand, wrinkled her nose as if she has suddenly caught whiff of a decomposing body nearby and shifted her glare in my direction "I am not wearing this!" she announced defiantly pointing at her clothes. "Yes you are!" I called over my shoulder on my way out the door. "And I want you in the bathroom in 3 minutes so I can style hair”. I was confident from the loud growling emanating from Kaila's wet dripping body that she had heard me.

 I smiled at how successful the morning had gone so far.
 
Makenna entered the bathroom dressed and chatting up a storm. She is a morning person like her father so obviously I can't relate to her. Silently I held out a pair of my silver hoop earrings for her to borrow for the day. She was ecstatic and displayed her appreciation with enthusiastic hugs and loud squealing. This was way too much noise for 7:30 am and it took everything I had not to duck tape her mouth shut. After an excruciating 15 min of listening to "who has a crush on whom in the 4th grade” and straightening hair, she was now a perfect reflection of the photographer models. Success!

One down one to go
 
I called for Kaila next. After the 4th call and numerous threats she dragged her forlorn body up the stairs. I gasped at her attire. She was decked out in what could only be described as “Las Vegas meets Pippi Longstocking!”

Bright multiple patterned psychedelic leggings peaked out from a brown and pink plaid wool skirt. Her top was an oversized pink glitter tee shirt, screen printed with a large dog head. She had a scarf tied around her waist and a baseball cap on her head. To say I was horrified would be an understatement.
 
I like to think of myself as a convincing debater but all my years on the debate team never prepared me for the tenaciousness of this particular 8 year old. "You just don't understand my style" she argued. "I need my friends to see the real me and this is the real me!" she swept her hand dramatically down the front of her elaborate outfit. I tried to explain to her that she could “express her style” on Saturday's or when I'm out of town and her Dad is in charge…or perhaps on Halloween.

Nothing seemed to satisfy her and I was running out of time, so we made a deal. I picked the outfit - she picked the hair style. I won the battle but not the war. She ended up in my 'photo perfect' outfit with stringy frizzy ponytails. It was the best I could do under the circumstances.
 
After all of my efforts, sweat and tears, both daughters prepared to leave the house in picture ready form....more or less. I lovingly kissed them on their heads and left them with warnings of torturous punishments and horrible consequences if they messed up their hair or muddy their clothes before they had their pictures taken.
 
With minutes to spare I triumphantly opened the front door and…… gasped, then closed my eyes in despair. It was pouring rain.
 
Apparently the universe hates me.
 
I took one last look at my pristine daughters, let out a long sigh and asked for their picture packets back. I erased the big package I had earlier selected and just ordered a single 8x10. No need to order extras,  I was doomed.
 
 
“Well” I sighed....”At least I will have some embarrassing ammo to bribe them with once they’ve started dating.”
 
And Danny says I'm not an optimist.