Say Cheese!

My Beloved hates having his photo taken.

Hates it with a passion.

While I’m not too fond of it either, I will nonetheless sit and smile when told to. And think of the bigger picture (pardon the pun).

See, each year, and only once a year mind you, I line the family up for an ‘official’ portrait- not official as in the full-suits-and-serious-expressions like the days of olde (mind you, a trip to Nana's was never complete without an enjoyable stroll down memory lane via her vast collection of prints), but a couple of shots taken by a professional photographer to add to the family album (AKA “Rogues’ Gallery”).

I think it’s vital to capture the little smiling faces of our children while they are still young, and it’s quite the eye opener to see just how much their faces change from year to year. At this age, it’s almost on a daily basis, so quickly they seem to grow.

Besides, I like to pretend that we’re a happy family, at least once a year.

Looking at the faces smiling out at you from the resulting photographs, you’d never know what really goes on behind the scenes.

The first trick is to get everyone together- and awake- at the same time. When my Beloved’s on shift work he keeps to a totally different timetable, and not one that the average photo studio works to either. So a Sunday morning seemed the best choice. I even timed it between feeding time at the zoo (i.e. after morning tea and before lunch).

Then there's choosing what everyone will wear, and trying to select stuff that looks good alongside (or even on top of) each other (you know how creative some of these photographers can be). That’s a lot harder than it sounds. I don’t know about your family but in ours everyone likes different colours and styles, and there can be some pretty impressive clashes when they meet.

Having made the final selection for this year's session, my daughter stood there staring while I pressed the necessary creases into my Beloved’s good shirt.

“What are you doing?” came the question from the vicinity of two big green eyes peering up at me over the ironing board.
“Ironing.” was my reply
“I’ve never seen you do that before.” said she
“Of course you have!” said I with something akin to indignation, “just not very often, hey honey." (insert smile here)
“Why not?” pressed my pint-size inquisitor
“Well, your daddy can hardly wear a business shirt when he’s driving the truck now can he? And since I’m currently not in paid employment I don’t have to wear a work uniform either.”

Satisifed that I had staved off any further enquiry I went about the business of de-creasing the cottons without burning anyone in the process. (I should also mention that I am a touch OCD when it comes to ironing, and since I can never get it as smooth and crease-free as I like, I avoid it wherever possible, to keep the stress down all ‘round.)

While I was doing that, my Beloved was in the bathroom muttering about me for making him get dressed up for the occasion (“I even trimmed my ears for godsakes!”). Our son decided daddy was a good role model and also started giving grief about going (without the need for any aural grooming, mind you). Our daughter on the other hand was pressed, dressed, and raring to go, practicing her prettiest poses while she waited for the rest of us.

Then of course came the fun part of finding a park at the shopping centre, less than 4 weeks from Christmas. With my Beloved at the wheel it felt more like a ride on some bizarre undercover rollercoaster as he hurtled up the levels looking for a spot, since we were already late. “There’s one!” came the cry from the back seat, but our current speed was a little too quick and we sailed on by the little green light blinking at us from up above the spare space. “I can see one!” came another cry, but it was red not green which reminded me I needed to brief the young ones a bit better about the fine art of parking at the shops. Finally we found a suitable spot that wasn’t 5 kilometres from the door, which left us T-minus 10 minutes to get to our allotted appointment.

After bustling through the smallest doorway in the world into the smallest waiting room in the known universe, I affixed a look of fake excitement to my face as I announced our arrival to the girl behind the desk who was almost buried beneath a mountain of paperwork from all the other happy families lining up for their annual Christmas tableau (I'm sure my anxiety-related facial tic went mostly unnoticed).

Only 55 minutes after our appointed time, we were ushered into the studio for a series of blink-and-you’ll-miss-‘em portrait shots (and blink we all managed to do at least once- thank heavens for the instant imaging and erasing of digital photos is all I can say).

Only 45 minutes after that we were poured into yet another tiny room for the selection of shots. Now, to look at the 20 or so pictures projected onto the big screen for our viewing enjoyment, you’d never know there was at least 3 frowns, 2 bumped heads (the result of one child trying to push the other out of frame with that particular body part), a graceful but gradual slide off the subject's stool (due to an unforeseen combination of silky skirts on shiny vinyl covering), numerous exclamations of “Dad’s smelly underpants!” (seems the ubiquitous “Cheese” just doesn’t cut it with a 7-year-old boy), countless squabbles and the requisite number of “I’m warning you”s (with more than one captured on film thanks to poor timing on our part) leading to this moment now showing in all its technicolour glory.

Satisfied that we did indeed have at least one visual imprint of a loving happy family in captivity, we placed our order and left without a backward glance, glad to put it all behind us.

Until next year anyway…

Jx
©2009