On the dad front, I pretty much make things up as I go along. It’s fairly intuitive, or so I like to believe, and as challenges arise, I face them as bravely as I can. Most of the time, I manage to get by without too many bumbles or bruises. But every once in a while, I get entirely thrown off my game, and always when I least expect it.
For example, last Wednesday I was dropping Alden off at school and was handed an envelope. I had to choose Alden’s school picture right away, in order to ensure the photos would arrive back from the photographer before the holidays. And to avoid horrendous late fees, etc. Alden had been sick Monday and Tuesday of last week, and so our family had missed the two extra days that we would otherwise have had to ponder this important decision more carefully.
Nevertheless, I was unfazed. How hard could it be to choose a photo?
Pretty hard, apparently.
I had figured they would have snapped one or two shots of Alden. No sir. They took about 15.
If that wasn’t bad enough, they took the photos against a green screen, which means they were able to offer a dizzying array of backgrounds of every color, texture, and mood. Every pose was available with every background.
As the options multiplied exponentially, my pulse increased. I grew flushed. I started to perspire.
I had just wrapped my mind around the aforementioned complexity when I saw the special section devoted to festive, holiday-themed scenarios meant to suggest that my child is thriving and happy in a carefully manicured world in which snowballs make heart shapes when they hit a tree.
I was tempted to curl up under the child-sized table at which I sat fretting and grab the closest teddy bear. But instead, I snapped a few photos, sent them to Robbi, called Robbi, and forced her to bear the full brunt of my indecision. Together, we wrestled with the options, debating every permutation. I preferring the traditional, vertically oriented portrait with a simple background and Robbi more willing to embrace the holiday kitsch.
No resolution in sight, I called Alden over and asked her to weigh in. She scanned the sheet and calmly pointed with one finger. “That one,” she said, before skipping away to learn.
It had taken a child to cut through the knot of angst. I filled out the form, wrote the check, and walked away, humbled anew at the ongoing challenges of being a parent.
Yup, it is these decisions that I find most difficult. What I feed my kid, where she slept, not that difficult. What picture pose to choose? But you have discovered the magic of their decisiveness. I still use it.
Am I the only one ROFL?
No disrespect to Alden of course.
Could it be Matthew’s presentation of the story?
I’m appalled to see that the Union of Disgruntled Dysfunctional Disillusioned, and possibly Deviant, School Photographers has obviously hired a marketing firm to wring every last dollar from fawning parents. Surely you bought enough of the shots to help with their beach house payments.
I can’t wait to read in this blog about the coming years of the “Endless Xmas pageant”. And you have 3 x 8 years, assuming they will become too cynical to continue the madness into their high school years. And for god’s sake, don’t enroll them in dance school. We need to talk.
And what does ROFL mean? I’m old AND crotchety.
Ah yes, school pix. I still have one of myself in the third grade where the dork factor is not to be believed. And I clearly remember the outfit and the hairdo as something I thought was SO cool. My son’s best pix (read worst) were junior high. My husband says that is the unkindest phase for guys. My son proved that right.
To John: I am oldish too, but I believe “ROFL” means “rolling on the floor laughing”.