This picture is so embarrassing. Really.
It represents our failings as parents.
We don’t go to the professional photographer. And our kids know it.
They also know that my love language is pictures.
So whenever they dress up (this was for the surprise fortieth birthday party of a dear friend. No, it was not a formal party. Anything to put on a twirly dress, that’s the motto around here), they also have a Pavlovian urge to pose for pictures.
They know that nothing makes me happier than pictures of my kids. It makes me feel like I’m documenting their stages. It makes me feel like we’ll remember these years.
The truth is actually that I’m not brave enough to hire a profesional. During Catie’s newborn and toddler years (right up to the time the twins were born) we took her to an obscene amount of photo shoots. All starring her. Our only child.
I can tell you that I earned every wrinkle on my face prying her into cute outfits and begging her to lean against a large number 1 or hold up an umbrella or whatever. Later, when we discovered photojournalism, I bribed her with an embarrassment of sweets if she would just, “SMILE!” for the man in the park or the woman at the pool who was snapping “spontaneous” shots of her.
And yes, we got some beautiful pictures.
But that was one kid! I’m sorry to say I don’t know how a photo shoot would work with more than one kid because I’ve never had the courage. Wait, I take that back. There was one photo shoot three years ago that took the entire day and ended with stiff margaritas for everyone involved.
So until someone gives me the name of a laid back photographer that could make our photo shoot a delightful Saturday afternoon activity, we’ll stick with the DIY photographs on our living room floor.
Where we put our kids in awkward poses, bribe them with sweets, and yell, “SMILE!” until we all need a margarita.
