Tag Archive | school photo

A Letter to the Yearbook Editor

Dear 5th grade yearbook editor,

I hate you. I know this might sound a bit harsh coming from a person you’ve never met, but perhaps once you’ve read my letter, you’ll come to understand why I think you’re the devil incarnate.

Let me start by saying that I remembered to send in the money to pay for my son’s elementary school yearbook – ON TIME I might add. And let me tell you, as disorganized as I am, that was no easy feat. But now (weeks later) you’ve requested that we also send in wallet-size copies of our kid’s 1st and 5th grade school pictures for some sort of then-and-now yearbook retrospective.

I reiterate, I hate you.

I know the people in your world put their pictures into albums, and there’s probably a fair amount of scrapbooking going on, but in my world, pictures get stuffed into drawers, boxes, cabinets, and closets. They become like Kodak paper caulk, filling in all the little nooks and crannies of those dark, forgotten places. So, asking me to find two specific pictures means sending me on a long expedition through those parts of my house that I would much rather avoid.

I’ve got a reasonable chance of finding the picture taken this school year, but the one from FOUR years ago? You might as well blindfold me, drop me in the middle of the Amazon rainforest, and send me on a quest to find a poison dart frog. Actually, that would be easier – at least I’m sure the poison dart frog exists; I can’t say the same for my son’s 1st grade school photo.

The way I see it, you gave me two crappy options to chose from:  I could either look for the pictures and risk being crushed to death by an avalanche of disorganized photos, or I could forget the whole thing and choke on my own maternal guilt.  At least if I chose the former option, my son would know I died a hero.

So I opened the first closet door….

 

Three_hours_later

I swear I heard the Spongebob narrator mocking me in my head.

 

 

After an exhaustive search, my findings only served to reinforce my reasons for wanting to steer clear of these confusing crevices. I felt as though I fell down a rabbit hole, and into a world where nothing makes any sense.  For example, I had an easier time finding my high school field hockey picture from 25-years ago, than my son’s current school photo:

 

 

The 80’s were a very dark time in my hair’s history.

The 80’s were a very dark time in my hair’s history.

 

I also found at least twenty pictures of my dog, Lady, who died almost two decades ago, but not a single wallet-size photo of my son in first grade:

 

Makes me wonder if I subconsciously love my dog more than my kid.

Do I subconsciously love my dead dog more than my kid?

 

My crazy trip to blunderland also unearthed an 8×10 photo of this from the depths of my closet:

 

You just can’t make this shit up.

You just can’t make this shit up.

 

I can’t tell you how much I appreciate being reminded of the fact that I’m married to a man who not only photographs creepy bugs, but also feels compelled to enlarge them like they’re family portraits. For obvious reasons, my brain made the executive decision long ago to forget about this adorable quirk of his, but due to your little treasure hunt, it’s once again staring at me in the face – with all five of its beady bug eyes.

I wish I could tell you that after hours of sweating and sifting through these bittersweet remnants of my past, I achieved my goal of finding the lost pictures; but that’s the kind of fairytale ending only organized people get to have. My ending includes a cold six-pack, and a debate over whether or not to venture back into the bewildering abyss tomorrow.

But before I crack open my first beer, I’d like to thank you for wasting the better part of my day on a fruitless search to find a picture I probably didn’t even get around to sending to his grandmother. And another word of thanks for making me feel like the world’s crappiest mother because I managed to hang onto Jeff Goldblum’s after-photo, but not my own son’s school portraits.

Maybe someday when my kids are all grown up and I’m looking for a new hobby, I’ll break out some pinking shears and create a collage of perfect memories. But until then, here’s my scrapbook, bitch….

 

Move the fuck over, Martha Stewart.

Move the fuck over, Martha Stewart.

To the Guy Who Took My Kid’s School Photo

Dear Mr. Photographer –

When I pay $60, I expect to get a picture I don’t have to hide in a closet and tell all the grandparents that we accidentally forgot to take school photos this year.  You pay that kind of money at a portrait studio, and you’ll get a photographer who’s willing to stand on their head and make duck noises just to get your kid to smile.

My son is at the awkward stage in life when he could use a little help looking his best.  I’m sure in another five years, he’ll be breaking the hearts of teenage girls everywhere, but for right now, he’s a hot mess.  His Alfalfa hair has to be tamed like a pack of pissed off porcupines every morning so he doesn’t go to school looking hung over; and he’s got a mouth full of teeth, all kind of doing their own thing, which gives him that quirky Brit-with-a-bad-dental-plan sort of look.

I know you probably make minimum wage, and you have to deal with little kids all day who pick their nose, blink, or make fart noises while you’re trying to do your job.  But I only get one of these pictures a year.  ONE.  And I have to pass it along to every relative with a wallet.  Why?  I don’t know, it’s in the parenting rulebook.  I give everyone a picture, and they pretend to give a shit.  It’s a delicate balance and you’re making it much harder than it has to be.  I know it’s not your problem, but I’ve got relatives with adorable kids who coordinate their hair bows and dresses, and kids that have no right to look beautiful when they’re supposed to be going through their gawky years.

So please, pretty please with fucking gummy bears and sprinkles on top – could you make sure my son’s shirt doesn’t look like he just rolled out of bed?  Do you know how long I obsessed over which shirt to pick out for him?  At least ten minutes…. which is nine minutes longer than I obsess over what clothes to put on my own body most days.   All I’m asking is that you take a few seconds to straighten out the shirt I ironed, so I can show my family that for one brief, shining moment, he didn’t look like a hobo.

Granted, your depiction of my son in his rumpled (yet lightly starched) clothes was a much more realistic account of what he looks like on an everyday basis.  But if I wanted realism, I’d have taken a snapshot of him in his pajamas while he shouted G-rated expletives at his video games, and saved myself the $60.  I don’t think you understand the gravity of this situation.  This picture will be immortalized on his Grandma’s wall of fame, next to the aforementioned Gerber babies and Gap kids my son has the unfortunate luck to be related to.  So I’d really appreciate it if you would work with me!! 

Sincerely yours,

Mommy Dearest

P.S. – On a more positive note, I wanted to let you know that I noticed the vast improvement you made in getting him to smile this year.  Last year, he looked like he was trying to smile while passing a kidney stone, but this time, despite a mouth full of rebellious teeth, his smile looked lovely.  I’d love to learn your secret before the holidays so I can avoid last year’s Christmas card picture fiasco.  My kids were so traumatized by that photo shoot, that it took them until Valentine’s day before anyone could say the word “Cheese!” around them without causing them to scream bloody murder.  We’ve been banned from three local pizzerias already….

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