Any-Mom » Say Cheese

Say Cheese

10.23.2008 | Author: OrganizerMom | Posted in Pick Your Battles

It’s that time of year again, when parents take their kids for haircuts and dress them in their finest. No, I don’t mean Christmas, I’m talking about School Pictures.

Actually, my son isn’t even in real school yet. He still goes to preschool. So it was something of a shock to learn about school pictures for the first time a few years ago when he was in the two-year-old class. That year I did manage to dress him in a cute outfit, with a blue and yellow stripy sweater, navy corduroys, and brown dress shoes. They perched him on a bright yellow stool against a blue background – how fortuitous that the props were the same colors as his clothing! Unfortunately, it was in the middle of winter and he was fresh from a cold and an ear infection so he had dark circles under his eyes and a ring of chapped skin around the lower part of his mouth. Luckily, when the final pictures came, the photographer had done some Photoshop magic and the clown mouth was gone.

Last year, in the three-year-old class, I managed to sweet-talk my son into wearing a nice sweater and pants but he got stubborn with the shoes and insisted on sneakers. They posed him with a 3-foot yellow crayon against a blue backdrop, again, the perfect complementary colors for the outfit we settled on. Unfortunately, I had forgotten to cut his hair and it was a shaggy mess.

This year I am determined to ace the entire photographic experience. The week before pictures are scheduled, I take my son to get his hair cut. We wait while the mom with four kids and another on the way gets her smallest, screaming at the top of his lungs child finished up and then my son climbs onto the giraffe seat and has the vinyl cape fastened around his neck.

“How do you want it?” the young woman hair cutter person asks me.

“Uh, just like it is but shorter,” I reply. I’m not really sure of the terminology here as this is only the second time I have ever taken my son for a hair cut. My mother had been taking him monthly for the past year.

“What size clippers does he take?”

“Huh?” First off, I didn’t know there were sizes and second, I have no freaking idea!

“Whatever you think,” I say lamely. She looks at me kind of strangely, no doubt wondering what kind of lousy mother I am who doesn’t even know what size clippers her son takes. I use the opportunity to make her my friend and confess that I’m not usually in charge of this aspect of my son’s life. She laughs then and says okay, I’ll start with the smaller ones. I sit back in relief and dive back into the People magazine I picked up from the shelf. I’ve really got to find out about Brad and Angelina’s new set of twins. I’m so absorbed in this I don’t even watch my son’s haircut. He doesn’t pay any attention either; his face is glued to the cartoons playing on the TV. I guess we are both taking a little escape from reality here.

His haircut comes out great and I happily pay the $14 bucks and $3 tip. I mentally check “get haircut” off my list of Things To Do For Picture Day.

I almost screw up by forgetting to return my sign-up form and check by the deadline but I pull out a victory at the last moment and deliver it to the program head with a flourish. I also nail the old towel drive for needy doggies, the decorated letter-of-the-week, the frozen pizza and chocolate chip cookie dough fundraiser, and the bottle of honey for the “Buck a Bottle” booth at the fall fair. (Hmm, okay so maybe I’m feeling a little guilty about not signing up for any parent volunteer jobs at the beginning of the year.)

When picture day comes, I lay out a cute outfit on my son’s bed. I say, “I put out a cute outfit for you.”

Right away he starts arguing. “That’s not a cute outfit.”

“It is cute and you are cute, too.”

“I’m not cute and that’s not a cute outfit. Actually, I’m cute but that outfit is not cute.”

This conversation goes on for a while. We’ve got five minutes left before we have to leave and I’m starting to feel grumpy. “Please, please, please, just put this on,” I beg.

“No.”

I weigh my options: 1) Physically restrain him while putting on the cute outfit and then take a screaming angry kid to the camera man to have this moment immortalized for all time. 2) Cave in and let him wear whatever he wants, take him to school happy, avoid getting a headache, and roll my eyes and say, “What are you gonna do?” whenever anyone comments on the picture. I pick Option 2. As soon as I’ve made this decision, I’m galvanized into action. I spy his favorite shirt with a strange prehistoric looking fish on it sticking out of the laundry basket. I grab it and dance it in front of him. “How would you like to wear this shirt?” I say in my best Come get in my car and I’ll give you some candy voice.

His face lights up and he says, “YEAH!”

Score one for me! He puts on the cute outfit and I slip the ugly shirt over it. I don’t even ask him to wear his nice brown dress shoes. I just slip on the bad spiderman sneaks and off we go.

We nose into a parking space and watch the bajillion other children spilling out of their mini-vans and SUV’s. All dressed to the nines. The little boy exiting the van beside us even has his hair slicked back and is wearing a collared shirt. ALL the little girls are dressed in fairy-pink puffy concoctions with white tights and Mary Jane’s. I see the other moms sizing up my son’s outfit and I hear their internal dialogue: “What an idiot. Did she forget today is Picture Day?” “How could she bring her kid to school dressed like that on Picture Day?” “She must be poor. Look at the way she’s dressed.” “That kid needs a haircut.” This last because I’ve forgotten to mash my son’s hair down after he went to bed with it damp last night after a shower. (Yes, I do occasionally wash my child. Well, at least wet him down.)

My Son's Crazy Hair

I muscle my way down the crowded hallway, hug and kiss my baby goodbye, wish him a good day at school, but don’t tell him to smile for the camera because, with the way he’s dressed and that spiky hair, what difference could a smile make? Then I hustle on outta there, avoiding eye contact with the other moms.

After all, it’s just a picture.