Guest Post by Jani Pearson

Portrait day. I thought getting my kids' portraits would be one of those special memories - right along with feeding my baby her first bite of banana. I imagined an effortless experience of crisp clothes, angelic smiles, and masterful poses. My walls would be covered with pottery-barn-like artwork of my daughters' faces. I quickly found that my idealist notion was wrong, so wrong. Portrait day is more like a bad day at the dentist. Except you're the dentist, there are ten angry patients complaining in the waiting room, and you just numbed your first patient's top lip. The endeavor involves three complex and fragile stages: Getting ready, posing, and choosing photos. The phases stack on top of each other like a Jenga tower of Piza.

Getting Ready
On portrait day I wake to the glare of my clock, 6:24. The clock is ticking. We have an 11:00am appointment. If we have breakfast by 7:30, we should finish baths, get dressed, and complete pigtails by 9:30, pile into the car by 10:00 and arrive at 10:20. It will take 15 minutes to get unloaded and walk from the parking lot to the elevator to the studio. If all goes well, I should be able to maneuver Audrey's nap schedule so we arrive during her happy window. Sounds simple enough.

Breakfast goes smoothly with my two-year old, aside from her smearing oatmeal in her hair and eyebrows. We finish at 7:54. Not bad. I have six minutes to get Amelia in her bath and Audrey down for a nap. I am an efficiency expert. With my right arm, I wrangle Amelia from the high chair; with my left I grab Audrey by the waist. She frantically begins sucking her bottom lip like she's famished. Her paci! I lean over and grab it with my teeth and then kick the hall door open with my left foot. I plop Audrey in her crib and Amelia in the bath. Audrey's crying. Amelia's yelling, "I need hotter! I need hotter, mama PALEEEEESE!" Like a metronome on high speed I go back and forth between the two, plugging Audrey with the paci and washing, splashing, and playing bake-a-water cake with Amelia in the tub.

It's 8:37. Darn. I've lost 7 minutes. I bribe Amelia with a cookie to avoid her daily screaming frenzy that usually ensues when I tell her it's time to get out of the bath. I can't lose those 15 minutes this morning. I refer to Amelia's dress as a "princess dress" and that springs her into action. Amelia is dry and dressed with shoes on. When I draw the comb from the drawer, she runs from me like I'm holding a head of broccoli. After bribing her with 10 Pez and a Dora show, I manage to chisel through the oatmeal (even after Johnson's and Johnson's) and tie her hair back into two uneven pig tails. Why do I always fail to achieve that perfect part other moms do so effortlessly? Mine looks more like a z zzz z.

Argh, it's 9:15. I need to pack our gear and wake, bathe, and dress Audrey. When I wake Audrey from her sweet sleep, she lets out a high A-sharp scream. She is not pleased. Even less so when I plunk her into the bath. I wash and dress my screaming baby and suppress the urge to scream myself. Out of the corner of my eye I notice Amelia has pulled the rubber bands from her hair and wrapped them around her bear's ears. And more good news. It's 9:45. Now I really need to move fast. I feel like a Ms. Pacman on level banana. I strap Audrey into her portable car seat, throw on some wrinkled shorts and a t-shirt for myself, redo Amelia's hair despite her screaming, pack a snack for Amelia, and prepare Audrey's diaper bag. I load all people and items on my limbs and back, and we make for the door. Somehow, between our front door and my car, Amelia manages to smear black dirt from my car's tire onto her white dress. Should I change her quickly? Check the watch. Nope, out of time. What kind of idiot would choose white for a two-year old, I wonder. I load the gear and people into the car. We have enough baggage that we could head out to Yosemite after the Portrait studio.

Finally. My wailing children are strapped in and we’re ready to go. All of the moving parts of the morning are sequestered in my vehicle. What a w-o-n-d-e-r-f-u-l moment.

It's 10:07. Stay focused.

The Portrait Studio
We arrive at 11:01. It's a mad-house. People, kids, babies, strollers, paperwork, ringing phones, and one attendant at the front desk. I glance at the sets of children. All perfectly manicured in matching outfits and eager to get their pictures taken. I look at my war-worn little ones. Amelia's drooping eyelids, her white (and black) dress, her sagging pigtails. Audrey has spit up on her blue and yellow jumper and she's fussing loudly. I feel depressed. I'm jolted out of my funk by a shrill "Who's next?" I look around at the ladies next to me, and say "I think I am." I see several eyes give me the you-poor-thing, mommy-sympathy look. The portrait lady drills me. "Are you a member of the Portrait Club?" "Do you have Portrait ID?" "Have you decided which Portrait package you want?" "Do you have a coupon?" "Are we doing two outfits or one?" I want to put my index finger to my lips and babble, blblblblblblbl. Instead, I locate my portrait card amidst all manner of department stores and buy-ten Golden Spoon coupon cards, answer her questions, and talk her down from the $259 Deluxe package to the $29.99 Basic. "Okay, have a seat. I'll call you when we're ready for you." "Thanks," I say. It's 11:32. I drag my now hungry, tired, and whining two-year old to the couch and park my sleeping Audrey next to us. So much for taking pictures during my kids' happy window.

"Pearson!" The shrill voice calls at 12:00. Finally! It's our turn. Amelia's first. Mrs. Shrill, whose real name is Joanie, suddenly turns into a puppeteering, raspberry-blowing, face-contorting, comedian. "Okay, princess," she sings, "sit on this chair and look over here at Mr. Chicken!" (Mr.? I think). Amelia looks at the soft pink chair like it's electric. "No, mommy, No! I don't want to!" I used to frown on moms who bribed their children with food. I've given up on such ideals. "Amelia, if you will cooperate for mommy, we'll get ice cream later." "No, momma! I don't like pictures!" "What kind do you think you want?" I tease, "chocolate…vanilla…strawberries with sprinkles?" The sprinkles get her. "Strawberry with sprinkles," she says with a tiny smirk.

She finally sits on the chair and Joanie takes over again. "Smile, princess! Mr. Chicken loves it when little girls smile, don't you Mr. Chicken?" Mr. Chicken is starting to sound like a dirty old man. Amelia smiles for a brief second. The smile's there. It's gone. Snap! We missed the smile and end up with a grotesque-looking expression. She begins again. "Oh, what a beautiful smile! Princess! Princess! Look here. Pbbbbbbbbbbbb!" Joanie blows a loud raspberry. I feel the urge to laugh hysterically. A half smile emerges on Amelia's face. The smile's there. It's gone. Snap! A variation on this routine goes on for the next ten minutes. We finally end up with a half a dozen shots ranging from distorted to dazed to just teeth. "I think we got some good ones! Now it's the little one's turn," she orders.

The circus begins afresh. "Audrey, lookey here!" Snap! "Boo! Boo! Pbbbbbbbb!" Snap! "Where's the chicken? There he is!" Snap! "Audrey, Audrey. Lookey here!" Snap! "A boo! A boo!" (Doesn't she mean "achoo?) "I got your feetsy, I got your feetsy." Snap! Snap!" When she's finished snapping, Joanie's hair looks frizzier than it did, and it is wet with sweat around her forehead and ears. We manage a few empty gazes from Audrey and one curly half-smile.

By the time Amelia and Audrey pose together, even Joanie's extraordinary show of potty humor doesn't help. Audrey is ticked. The resulting photo is of Amelia staring off into La La Land and Audrey bawling her eyes out.

Selecting the Photos
By now it's half past 1, and my kids are beyond tired. I'm beyond tired. And yet, we still need to order our pictures. While I enjoy looking at the final pictures, choosing the right ones is stressful. There is so much to consider. I have two kids, which means I end up with 9 to 12 shots of each, plus three shots of them together. Each shot is labeled P1, P2, P3, unless they are enhanced (black-and-white, sepia), then they are E1, E2, E3. I can choose between wallets, 3x5, 5x7, 8x10, and 10x13. You get one pose or one shot per sheet. There are four 3x5s and two 5x7s to a sheet. I have to make sure I order enough pictures for my mom, my mother-in-law, my three sisters, my two grandmothers, my husband's cousins and me. Each is going to want at least two pictures, one of Audrey and one of Amelia. My head hurts. With all of that in mind, I need to make sure I stay within the confines of the package I picked (that $259 package is looking better all the time). And I need to choose my pictures quickly. Amelia has just gotten a burst of punchy energy causing her to dart like a hummingbird singing "Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious." I could make this simple and choose one of the best pictures of Amelia and one of the best of Audrey, ordering several different sizes for each of the people on my list. But I'm reminded of my role as household historian and guilt myself into ordering most of the poses.

After 15 minutes Joanie asks, "Are you all set?" "I need to be," I resign. "I've decided on two 5x7s of P1 and one 3x5 of P2, P3, and E13. I'll also take three 3x3s…I mean 3x5s of E13 and P 5x7s of P10. Did I say, "P"? I mean three 5x7s of P10." I feel an irresistible urge to laugh uncontrollably. Just like how I would when my sister and I would get the giggles during the silent moments of a piano recital. "Will you throw in a few C3P0s while you’re at it?" I bust up. Joanie's not amused. She confirms, "Okay, so you want one sheet of 5x7s of P1…" "No." I interrupt. I'm serious again. "I want two 5x7s of P1." "You are aware that you get two 5x7s per sheet, aren't you?" She questions. I nod yes. "Okay then, two P1 5x7s, one P2, P3, and E13 3x5s, three E13 3x5s and three P10 5x7s, right?" I pause, not wanting to look her in the eye. "I'm so sorry. I thought my daughter had an accident, will you repeat that one more time?"

At last, at quarter to two we have ordered our pictures and are ready to go home.

A week later, I receive the pictures by e-mail and send them to my husband. "Hey honey, let me know which ones are your favorites, okay?" I write. I planned to frame two pictures for Father's Day. Since he didn't respond to the e-mail, I asked him later that night. "Hey, so which pictures do you like the best?" "Oh, right." He says. "Uhhh….The kids look really tired in those pictures, don't you think? Maybe next time you should think about getting an earlier appointment. You know, catch them in their happy window." I bite my tongue and nod, "Hmm. I hadn't thought of that."