School Picture Time--Not Again!

I need to become a professional photographer who specializes in taking school pictures--not because I'm a good photographer (far from it!), but because I know what it takes to shoot classic school pictures. The sort that live forever in black-and-white in our precious yearbooks. The sort that end up in wallets and Christmas cards to Grandma and all the aunts and uncles. I know what it takes, I tell you!

We all remember our school pictures. I guarantee you can name the year of your best and worst-ever school picture. (For me, eighth and ninth grade are tied for worst. Oh...that hair! That skin! Those braces! The horror! Junior year of high school was perhaps the best. The braces were gone. Against all odds, my hair looked nice. I had my head tilted at a very flattering angle. And I actually looked happy.)

I got my six-year-old son's school picture proofs back today. I showed the picture to his three-year-old sister, and, I swear to you, it took her almost a full minute to identify him. Her own brother! I double-checked the name below the picture proof. Hmm. Right name. I recognize the striped, blue polo shirt; I bought it on clearance last spring. I paid a couple hundred bucks for those glasses. The hair is the right color. Where on earth did that facial expression come from? I think I know my own son pretty well, but, honestly, this look that the trained photographer managed to capture is unlike any look my son has ever given me. I wonder, "What, exactly, did you say to him, Mr./Ms. Professional Photographer?" Think of UFO's and global warming and soccer balls! Say "I love stinky feet!" (Flash! Click!)

I know my son's hair is unruly, but, my goodness, couldn't the trained photographer (or his/her assistant, if such a person exists) have spared a few seconds to smooth down his cowlick? Or straighten his shirt collar? I do have to give the photographer a little credit. I left special instructions to "watch the glare off his glasses!" (in my son's kindergarten picture, the glare is so bad, we can't even see one of his eyes) and, yes, there is no glare. Well done. Perhaps the photographer was so focused on glare-reduction, he/she forgot to capture even the slightest hint of amusement in my son's eyes, or the teeniest peek of a natural smile.

What do I know about photographing 500 kids in one day? Absolutely nothing. I imagine the pay sucks, and that it's hot under all those lights, and that you're always tripping over electrical cords and random equipment, and that you can't leave to use the restroom even though you really, really need to pee. I can hear myself, as that underpaid professional photographer, speaking to the five-year-old boy perched on the uncomfortable adjustable stool in front of the indigo background his mother selected. "Stop picking your nose!" I hear myself saying. "Sit up straight! Look right here! Right here, okay?! Yes, your mommy is going to see this picture. Let's make sure it's a good one. Ready? One, two...Do you need a Kleenex, sweetie? Yeah, you've got a little...uh, a little something coming out of your nose. Is that better now? Ready for the picture? Look up, honey! Right here. Over here! Yoo-hoo! Your friend gets his picture taken after you're all done, okay? You can scratch your nose in a second, sweetie. We're almost done. One, two...Keep your hands in your lap, okay? One, two, three, say 'Stinky cheese!' Good job, buddy. High five. Okay. Who's next?" And to go through that 500 times in one day! Those photographers are saints!

How long did my son have to wait in line, practicing his fakest smile, mussing his hair, sharing fart jokes with the other first-graders, before it was his turn to climb onto that awful little stool under the lights? I wish I could have requested to have a candid shot taken of him standing, squirming in line with his friends, immediately after the "official" photograph. I'd love to witness that moment, when the fake, cheesy, posed smile melted into his natural, exuberant, carefree, giggly grin. And wouldn't it be wonderful if I could select the candid photograph to be used in the yearbook in place of the formal, horrible, "official" one? Oh well. It wouldn't be fair, anyway.

My son deserves the same experience I have whenever I open my old yearbooks, and flip to my class' page. I make fun of my teacher's goofy hairdo, and laugh at how much Annie Watson hasn't changed since fifth grade, and cringe when I imagine kissing Bradley Jacobs now. When I get to my own picture and force myself to relive that stiff, toothless smirk, or somehow endure that glaring, acne-stubbed chin and hideous floral dress, I can't help but smile. A very natural, relaxed smile, which extends through all the crow's feet around my eyes--because those school picture days are long gone. But I will always treasure the photographic evidence.