if you only knew....

the blood, sweat and tears it took to get that christmas shot down below.

oi, the agony.

i admit i'm a tad prejudiced. i tend to side with sophie. think my kid is pretty durned cute. and i like to take pictures to prove my point.

once a year, about this time ok, lets face it, usually 3-5 days before christmas, i pick up bella from school and we spend an afternoon primping and curling and generally girly-ing up for the all important Perfect Christmas Shot that will inevitably be talked about for generations and that all the grandparents and aunts and great-aunts and friends and friends of friends are waiting, with baited breath, in tingling anticipation, to receive.

or at least i tell myself this. don't rain on my parade. better yet ~ don't melt my snowman.

in the early years, when my child was golden and naturally photogenic and i thought i had money to roll up and smoke, i'd take her to olan mills. they chopped off an extremity each time for the bill, but boy-howdy was my kid cute. ringlets and halos, my friends. ringlets and halos. as early as 6 months, my little red-headed, blue eyed bundle of energy was perfection for the photographers. sitting so still. holding a pose. smiling so beautiful.

and then, the teen years set in. 'round about kindergarten.

all of a sudden, my perfect little poser would rather eat spinach wrapped liverwurst rolls dipped in rancid goat-cheese, than to sit still and take a picture. i have more photographic evidence of blurs and bottoms than actual face-shots.

my little calvin down there at the bottom of the page making all his little faces? he is my little friend. why? because he reminds me to laugh. because he is my child, personified.

now. usually, i reserve this daunting nightmare task for the privacy of our own home. that way i can muffle the screams. as it turns out, i am evidently a dissatisfied photo-hungry ogre. my daughter, the diva.

and for some unforseen reason, last year, due to a lapse of good sense and mostly to the fact that we didn't actually get a tree til the week before christmas, i got the idea in my brave head, that it would be fun to take pictures at nana & papaws.

due mostly to the fact that they actually had a tree.

which went over like hitler performing a circumcision.

the whole thing ended in frustration and tears. and then there was bella. later, my m-i-l would take it upon herself to inform me that i was a loser (tho she was slightly more delicate) and that i "expected entirely too much out of my child. that rolling around underneath the tree with her rump in the air was perfectly natural, not to mention beautiful. that i should have got the shot. "

this from the woman that took my child in leotards, a santa hat and a *lets get physical* belly-tee to sit on santas lap at the mall.

and no. i will never show you that picture.

as it happens, i'm saving it for my tell-all autobiography when my daughter hits hollywood.

so yeah. i suppose we'll chalk up yesterday to a combination of being high on sinus medication, a mocha moo-latte and/or nothing better to do with my time. i had torture on the brain, my friends.

we'll go with that.

at any rate, i picked bella up from school and convinced her it would be the best, most funnest thing in the whole wide universe, to dress up in her pretty dress and curl her hair and use all manner of ribbons and nail-polish and such, and take: drum roll please, christmas pictures! at nana and papaws!

woohoooooo!!

now. i should tell you that the process leading up to the apocalypse is flawless. absolutely brilliant, for those of our british friends, amongst us. yes, my daughter will be selling mary-kay by 10.

:sob:

she doesn't get it from me. i can barely match my bra to my underwear. my idea of makeup is lipgloss and mascara. i may remember to actually curl my lashes, first. if i'm getting really fancy, i will dig my hot rollers out, circa 1992.

but bella loves the girly stuff. the accessories! the makeup! so she is a dream. right up until the "ready for my closeup". and then we skid 90 miles an hour into a screeching halt, implanting ourselves in the brick wall that is the camera lens.

all i ask is one stinkin' shot, dude. one. stinkin'. shot. i just want to capture one tiny moment of the year older, angelic, adorable child i helped birth.

instead, i spent 30 minutes last night, simultaneously with satans spawn and the devils advocate.

in one brief road-weary, tear-infested, wrinkle-induced, manic- giggling moment last night, loading the 63 shots i took, only 5 of which were acceptable and only 2 of which i'd actually consider, i briefly tossed around the idea of loading them all for you. a slideshow of horrors, if you will. including, yes, yet again, a shot of a bum under the tree, as she broke my perfect pose and dove underneath to grab the kitten.

le sigh.

in my defense, i was being perfectly reasonable. i was determined to make this fun and pressure free. i was not overbearing. i was not expecting too much. i bit my tongue when mid-shoot, nana plopped down a bowl of potato soup, because she "knew all this was making her grandaughter hungry." i gritted my teeth as nana butted in 3 seperate times with her own camera and my daughter gave her the miss america shot then picked her nose for me. i swallowed my lips whole, as nana made little comments about how "all this really wasn't necessary, considering we weren't even going to be here for christmas. "

sensing my frustration kicking into over-drive, she then announced "well. i think i'm done for now." then promptly sat down, lit a cigarette and told bella, "oh honey, just think. someday you'll have a baby of your own and then your mama will finally leave you alone. "

! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !

you know. its true what they say. about your kids picking your nursing home, i mean.....