Every year this time, we decide to take family pictures. You know, the ones you can attach to a post card and send to all of your relatives and friends for the holidays.
Our family consists of four boys, one daughter and two parents. Trying to get all seven of us in the same picture, smiling in the same direction, is a feat that would cause Houdini to feel insecure.
It starts off complicated, trying to coordinate colors. My daughter doesn’t want to wear the blue turtleneck with the v-neck sweater vest. It looks too boyish.
My sons refuse to wear beige with stripes – it looks too much like prison inmates. My husband says he’ll wear anything I choose as long as we are home before opening kick-off.
The 3-year-old’s pants are too short. I try putting on dark socks to hide the three-inch difference from the hem of his pants to his shoes. It doesn’t work, his ankles hang out like a turtleneck on a giraffe.
Shorts won’t work, I tried that three years ago with son number two, and the poor dear almost got frostbite on his knees.
It’s back to digging through hand-me-downs to see if I can find something for this boy (who must grow two inches every night).
Son number one says he is too old to dress like his brothers. I remind him he still wears his brother’s underwear when he runs out – “Get dressed,” I command.
My hair, well, that’s another story. I want it to flip, it flops. I try to curl it and put it up, it decides to lay straight. I look like someone put a Frisbee on my head. Forget it, I will pull it back in a bun. No sense changing now, it’s been four years in the running, my relatives may not recognize me any other way.
Once we finally make it to the photographer, he stands there with a look of fear.
“Are all of these people in the picture?” he questions.
He takes 45 minutes trying to arrange us so that we all get in the shot. I explained to him that the year before last, only half of my husband’s face made it in the picture. We wanted a whole dad this year.
“Unless we can get half off the price,” my husband teases.
The photographer stares blankly in our direction. I don’t think he has much of a sense of humor.
After 17 attempts of trying to get everyone to look at the camera, the photographer is now sweating heavily. It’s been almost an hour of breaking up spats with the children, reminding everyone to look at him – not the wall – and keeping the 3 -year-old distracted so he doesn’t pick his nose, but the picture is finally taken.
Unfortunately, this time only half of my husband’s body makes it into the picture.
The photographer says he’ll take us up on the 50 percent off.
We decline.
He quits.
Maybe we’ll send out fruitcakes this year.
Thanks for sharing.
Cassandraism: Family pictures remind you that at least for one hour in one day, the children were all able to get along.
