Portrait Paradise Lost

My family serves an interesting purpose: we are an instant crowd. A flash mob in a phone call. Filling a phone booth, planning an impromptu birthday party, about to forfeit a football game, needing to invade a small European nation? Our phone number is the only one you need on speed dial.

A couple of months ago, I received a generous offer from an old high school friend. She has been studying photography and wanted to photograph my mob of monsters to instantly bulk up her portfolio and jump start her entrepreneurial pursuits. I was thrilled with the prospect because with Christmas quickly approaching, I had a no-brainer gift for my friends and family. In the few seconds before I responded to her request, a foggy and nagging traumatic memory tugged at my thoughts, trying to remind me why I have a nervous twitch and immediate nausea when walking by portrait studios.

Perhaps my portrait phobia started with Jr. high school when I hoped that a thick layer of spackled Wet n' Wild makeup would hide my pock-marked and greasy visage. I lived through an era of time where hairstyles were gravity-defying and the hairspray that achieved these effects the best was the cheapest one with the most musky smell, which traveled to the farthest reaches of the building. I have been blessed with a thick head of stick-straight, baby-fine, reflectively-shiny dark hair. I can safely say that my follicle superpower is the amazing ability to repel any styling products regardless of price and fragrance and my hair will remain straight, without even a hint of wave or curl. So, picture day was torturous. Other awkward classmates arrived with their hair defying gravity in “claws” and “waves” and my feeble attempt more closely resembled the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Greasy and follicly leaning, my school pictures were always an embarrassment.

This phobia was revived again as a parent when my second child was only 18 days old. I believe that children who lack verbal skills must have an amazing telepathic ability with other small children around them, because the symphonic wailing during this event was impressive. I attempted to soothe my infant by thumping rhythmically on his back like a bongo drum, and just as I got him to coo happily, the toddler tagged in and took up the two-man tantrum. The portrait session was covered by a coupon advertising a Herculean-sized package of the first accepted pose. Historically the photographer gets four million more beautiful pictures after you have accepted the first mediocre one and then you remortgage your home to be able to have a bunch of cute pictures to keep in the top of your hall closet. In this portrait session there were TWO pictures. I don't mean that I purchased two pictures, I mean that there were only TWO pictures one of which was gifted by the photographer to us because it was so funny that both children were posed with their heads thrown back in the throws of full furniture-shaking screams!

With only a week to plan for my friend's charitable portrait session, I was only able to nurture a few ulcers into maturity over what to clothe my whole family in. While other people try to match handbags and shoes or while other kids are pestering mom for the newest craze in name brand clothing, my family is happy to settle for coverage. Spiderman jumpsuits, dance leotards, pajamas, even the occasional plastic grocery bag with strategic holes worn as overalls... in our house if it covers it's capital. But this is another topic for another pointless rant set to paper.

After hours of painstaking excavation of Mt. Washmore and rigorous expeditions into bedrooms to mine the contents of their dressers and closets, I had assembled the perfect combination of casual, yet dressy; coordinated, but not matching; unique, but not odd; and not a superhero in sight. I had it coordinated down to the socks, shoes and hair accessories.

The two-hour photo session proceeded with an eerie smoothness that soothed me into a false sense of security. The children were uncharacteristically obedient, congenial and obliging, following her direction with an obedience I had never witnessed. As is the case with five little boys and one 35-year old one, there was an occasional wrestling match in the dirt or pond-scum fight, but overall the behavior was acceptable and I felt confident. (I must note that my friend's vision and professionalism was wonderful and not what brought me surprise.)I was delighted with the notable lack of blood or screaming that are usually prevalent in our family outings. I drove home with a grin of satisfaction that I imagine people wear who have boringly normal children, the ones not secretly plotting world domination or designing plasma cannons (again another rant altogether). I was going to get my GAP ad-worthy family portrait to hang grandly in my living room like a Picasso.

I must also preface my portrait problem with the fact that I am an amateur interior decorator. I love to explore the balance and the hue and the shape of whatever graces my walls or covers my windows or knick-knacks around on my shelves collecting dust. Being the mother of six kids, the only evidence of this has to be six feet or more above ground-level to remain intact. Pictures are the essential element of kid-defying decorating. I have beautiful natural wreaths and paintings to lead the eye from the permanent marker, patched holes, grubby hand print chair rails, and bloodstains that otherwise add character to my home.

My mailbox is a tomb for the unwanted. I seem to receive nothing but printed advertisements to establishments that I never have nor intend to frequent, or bills which I intend to pay, but generally don't anticipate that I can afford. I know that it irritates my mail lady, who gives me snarls and glares every time she drives by and I am outside. I just don't see the purpose in harshing the buzz of my daily caffeinated beverage by reminding myself that I have actual adult responsibilities. In reality, I generally only fiscally behave as an adult two days a month, the day that I pay the mortgage and the day that I pay all the utilities, the rest of the month is blissful denial. I even went so far as to get one of those mail delivery movie services, this in hopes that the anticipation of the movies from my queue would motivate me to empty the mailbox. I do check the mail more frequently, I just grab the red envelope and leave the rest. So, the small box in my mailbox was welcome and not at all a disruption to my correspondence-delusions. I was so excited I might have actually emptied the mailbox before rushing into the front door and slamming the disc into my computer.

The loading time seemed eternal, but I coolly did a cursory clicking through of the thumbnails and all looked wonderful. My color-coordination had been perfect, the kids initially looked deceptively angelic and I was sure that I was going to get that prized and treasured Picasso that had eluded me time and again. The first group shot was acceptable, I only looked mildly plump as opposed to the grotesquely fat that I had anticipated. My husband was glowing with his toothy smile, my only daughter primly grinning and then the greasy-pimply Jr high horror rushed back. There in the middle center of the photograph was my stubborn four-year-old, his tongue lolling out the side of his stretched mouth, his head cocked mockingly to one side and his eyes crossed as the crowning glory. Panicked, I flipped through the other family portraits and to my horror, they were all the same although sometimes he changed it up a bit with his finger lodged to the second knuckle in one of his nostrils. My two middle boys had played switcheroo in the car and each now glaringly wore one white and one black sock both of which laughed at me from the computer screen. I finally settled on a pose and enlarged it to the desired proportion to perfectly accentuate my vaulted ceilings and calculated paint scheme.

And so...on my wall hangs a portrait of the eight of us, eyes crossed, picking our noses, acting like zombies, giving bunny ears and the sweet baby sitting in the middle looking resigned and confused. The way to conquer portrait-induced phobia: If you can't beat 'em, I guess you join 'em.