Showing posts with label Christmas. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Christmas. Show all posts
Thursday, December 22, 2011
Sunday, November 29, 2009
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
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
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Some Assembly Required
As I write this, there’s only 49 sleeps, 14 hours, 14 minutes & 49 seconds until December 25th (according to Santa’s Official Christmas Countdown Clock) so time has come once again for the little ones to write their list of what they’d like.
I’m hoping mighty hard that there’s nothing on there that includes extra batteries, or any assembly whatsoever.
My Beloved and I are only just recovering from last year’s efforts.
Since I just happened to be in a particular discount department store when they put out a huge special on trampolines (which featured prominently on the 2008 Christmas list), guess what the kids ended up with? And since I knew for a fact that a friend wanted one for her tribe, I simply had to do my civic duty and call to let her know about the bargain too.
I should’ve kept my mouth shut.
Anyone who’s ever tried to steer a shopping trolley knows how incredibly exasperating it can be. I swear the things have a mind of their own, and no sense of direction whatsoever.
It’s also sadly obvious that they’re not designed to take the big ticket items, because I had a reindeer’s chance in hunting season of fitting our trampoline in the wire basket provided - let alone two of them!
I can only say how happy I was that the display of said items was fairly close to the Lay-by department, at least I didn't have far to go.
So there I was- trying to lift one of the boxes onto the trolley one-handed, and guard the other one- in amidst the fiercest crowd of bargain hunters I have ever encountered. I practically growled at any shopper that came sniffing around my haul, just waiting for me to abandon my bouncy booty.
Seemed I was making a spectacle of myself (so what’s new? I hear my Beloved ask) and soon there was a friendly staffer hovering to offer assistance.
Unfortunately, the size of the staffer in question was even smaller than my pathetic 5 foot 4½ inches, and she was as hopeless as I was in attempting to balance a box across the top of the trolley (of course the dimensions were too big for it to fit inside). After fruitless efforts to make the mate fit as well, I then had the cunning plan of nudging the other one along on the floor (using my good leg) inch-by-painstaking-inch towards the Lay-by counter, also trying to steer the rogue shopping cart as I went.
It would be a joy to say the story ends happily here. But then, I wouldn’t be blogging about it if life was that easy.
Oh no, after dutifully making all the payments, then came the fun of picking the thing up from the shop and bringing it home before the fat man in red rode again.
Well, not being one to learn from my mistakes apparently, I overlooked the obvious and neglected to take my Beloved along to help me collect it, didn’t I?
Arriving at the store I was informed that due to its large size I had to drive around to the loading dock to pick it up. Oh well, at least there’d be a storeman to load it in the back of the ute, I thought.
I thought too soon.
After pressing the buzzer to hail some assistance, how bemused was I to see what looked like a 12 year-old working the back dock (minimum pay doncha know), and not one who had enjoyed a lot of fatty foods, judging by the size of him. He took one look at the ticket and tells me I’ll have to help. Oh goody.
Afraid of breaking either the precious parcel or the storeboy (seriously, he didn’t deserve the title of storeman) I had to shoulder most of the load and then try to manoeuvre it into my Beloved’s Brumby (AKA a Subaru BRAT, and I can assure you it was a toss-up who fit the description best: the car or storeboy, given his continued commentary about how heavy it was).
It took quite some time before I was able to 1) shut the tailgate with the trampoline box safe inside, and 2) actually move my achy body enough to drive the car home.
Once I got here though, I did my best impression of an Olympic relay runner and passed the metaphorical baton to my Beloved for the assembly process in record time.
Needless to say that as soon as I saw him surrounded by countless plastic packages and paraphernalia (including instructions written in hieroglyphics, apparently) I figured that perhaps I’d had the easy end of things after all. He finally had the trampoline taking pride of place in our backyard, only to inform me he wasn’t sure what to do with all these bits left over.
But as I sit, with 49 sleeps, 13 hours, 51 minutes & 26 seconds until it’s Santa’s showtime once again, I’m happy to report that there have been no major injuries from last year’s gift (we never did figure out where the other bits went)…
…and I’m praying that this year, perhaps the kids will be asking for books!
Jx
©2009
I’m hoping mighty hard that there’s nothing on there that includes extra batteries, or any assembly whatsoever.
My Beloved and I are only just recovering from last year’s efforts.
Since I just happened to be in a particular discount department store when they put out a huge special on trampolines (which featured prominently on the 2008 Christmas list), guess what the kids ended up with? And since I knew for a fact that a friend wanted one for her tribe, I simply had to do my civic duty and call to let her know about the bargain too.
I should’ve kept my mouth shut.
Anyone who’s ever tried to steer a shopping trolley knows how incredibly exasperating it can be. I swear the things have a mind of their own, and no sense of direction whatsoever.
It’s also sadly obvious that they’re not designed to take the big ticket items, because I had a reindeer’s chance in hunting season of fitting our trampoline in the wire basket provided - let alone two of them!
I can only say how happy I was that the display of said items was fairly close to the Lay-by department, at least I didn't have far to go.
So there I was- trying to lift one of the boxes onto the trolley one-handed, and guard the other one- in amidst the fiercest crowd of bargain hunters I have ever encountered. I practically growled at any shopper that came sniffing around my haul, just waiting for me to abandon my bouncy booty.
Seemed I was making a spectacle of myself (so what’s new? I hear my Beloved ask) and soon there was a friendly staffer hovering to offer assistance.
Unfortunately, the size of the staffer in question was even smaller than my pathetic 5 foot 4½ inches, and she was as hopeless as I was in attempting to balance a box across the top of the trolley (of course the dimensions were too big for it to fit inside). After fruitless efforts to make the mate fit as well, I then had the cunning plan of nudging the other one along on the floor (using my good leg) inch-by-painstaking-inch towards the Lay-by counter, also trying to steer the rogue shopping cart as I went.
It would be a joy to say the story ends happily here. But then, I wouldn’t be blogging about it if life was that easy.
Oh no, after dutifully making all the payments, then came the fun of picking the thing up from the shop and bringing it home before the fat man in red rode again.
Well, not being one to learn from my mistakes apparently, I overlooked the obvious and neglected to take my Beloved along to help me collect it, didn’t I?
Arriving at the store I was informed that due to its large size I had to drive around to the loading dock to pick it up. Oh well, at least there’d be a storeman to load it in the back of the ute, I thought.
I thought too soon.
After pressing the buzzer to hail some assistance, how bemused was I to see what looked like a 12 year-old working the back dock (minimum pay doncha know), and not one who had enjoyed a lot of fatty foods, judging by the size of him. He took one look at the ticket and tells me I’ll have to help. Oh goody.
Afraid of breaking either the precious parcel or the storeboy (seriously, he didn’t deserve the title of storeman) I had to shoulder most of the load and then try to manoeuvre it into my Beloved’s Brumby (AKA a Subaru BRAT, and I can assure you it was a toss-up who fit the description best: the car or storeboy, given his continued commentary about how heavy it was).
It took quite some time before I was able to 1) shut the tailgate with the trampoline box safe inside, and 2) actually move my achy body enough to drive the car home.
Once I got here though, I did my best impression of an Olympic relay runner and passed the metaphorical baton to my Beloved for the assembly process in record time.
Needless to say that as soon as I saw him surrounded by countless plastic packages and paraphernalia (including instructions written in hieroglyphics, apparently) I figured that perhaps I’d had the easy end of things after all. He finally had the trampoline taking pride of place in our backyard, only to inform me he wasn’t sure what to do with all these bits left over.
But as I sit, with 49 sleeps, 13 hours, 51 minutes & 26 seconds until it’s Santa’s showtime once again, I’m happy to report that there have been no major injuries from last year’s gift (we never did figure out where the other bits went)…
…and I’m praying that this year, perhaps the kids will be asking for books!
Jx
©2009
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