Today was Benny’s second professional portrait sitting, his 1-year photo only three months late. I’d scheduled this appointment four times, canceling the first three because of illness, and Benny’s busted lip from a fall at the park.
But today I had the perfect kid in the perfect outfit and his wonderful toothy smile. I curled Benny’s wet hair around my fingers for that Hot Disco Cherub look. I packed his sippy cup, favorite toy and extra outfit. We were ready.
Benny smiled and giggled in the car, in the store, at the portrait reception area. He loved the world and the world loved him. Then I pulled him out of the stroller and placed him on the white-draped table before the camera.
THUNK.
Benny fell to his knees, limp, moaning. Then he just sat, hunched, defeated, like an abandoned puppet. He pushed his lower lip out and the tears started.
Baffled, I picked him up. He smiled. I put him down again. He slumped. I tried to stand him up. He cried. The photographer touched his hand and he just went bananas.
“Um, do you have any toys?” I asked, cradling a hiccupping Ben in my arms.
The photographer’s brow furrowed. Toys? In a family portrait studio? How odd.
“I think so,” she said doubtfully. Her assistant dug out a jar of soap bubbles, which elicited a few polite smiles from Benny.
“He LOVES them!” The photographer cried.
“Yuck, I’m getting bubble stuff on my shirt,” the assistant said.
“Yeah, those aren’t the good bubbles,” said the photographer. “Can you get him to look this way?”
“Ick, that bubble popped in my face! I’m covered in bubble goop!”
By now, Benny was sagging again, looking pitiful.
“Oh, what a sweet face!” cried the photographer.
“I can’t do those bubbles anymore,” the assistant announced. She pulled out a big fluffy thing on a stick, like those tools used to dust cobwebs off ceilings.
“Tickle tickle tickle!” she cackled, poking the end at Benny’s feet, then his face. Benny lunged for the door.
“Maybe he could sit on that bench,” I said. pointing.
The assistant sniffed. “That’s a stool.”
“But he could theoretically sit on it,” I said.
They allowed that might be possible.
Benny did like the stool, and even smiled a little when the assistant dropped the fluffy stick. Then he cried.
Defeated, we went back to the reception area to see the half-dozen shots produced in a 30-minute session. The gray blob on the monitor was either a baby or a bottle-nosed dolphin.
“Is there any way we could see this better?” I asked the photographer.
Her brow furrowed again. “What do you mean?”
“Is there a way to see the picture more clearly?”
“No, this is a really bad monitor,” she said, as if it was something to be proud of.
I sighed. “I’ll take a few 5x7s of that one.” I hoped the actual pictures looked better; on the display, Benny looked like he’d just crawled out of coal mine.
She rang up our order, while Benny screamed from his stroller and the studio manager told me about her Sunday: “… A beautiful day and SIX people cancelled sessions and I was SO BORED …”
“$68.70,” said the photographer.
“WHAT?” I cried.
She repeated the shocking number.
‘I can’t pay that!” I said before I could stop myself. Benny threw his sippy cup and screamed.
I apologized and ordered their cheapest package -- $32 for three sheets. Benny was now bent in half from the waist, trying to dive headfirst onto the floor. I paid quickly and we raced out of the mall for a restorative snack in the McDonald’s parking lot.
Wolfing a cheeseburger, I twisted around in my Jeep’s front seat to look at a now-beaming Benny, clad only in a diaper and shorts, munching a French fry.
“We’ll make Daddy pick up the pictures,” I said.
EPILOGUE
Talked to my mother tonight and we think we can account for Benny’s behavior. Perhaps the white-draped walls and table and shiny equipment reminded Benny of the doctor’s office, where he recently received some painful shots. The bubble-hating assistant was wearing white, too. Mom said my story reminded her of when Andy was the same age, getting new shoes after his surgery. The shoe saleslady wore a white uniform, and poor Andy just fell apart.
##
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
Monday, April 18, 2005
Yo Ho Ho and a Bottle of Rum
Trapped at the ophthalmologist’s today, taking every bizarre eye test known to man.
It’s only due to Charles Schulz that I know what an ophthalmologist does. I always think of Linus and his new glasses, saying “My ophthalmologist says this and my ophthalmologists thinks that,” and Sally in her eye patch, educating the other kids about “lazy eye.”
I did get to wear an eye patch, although I forgot to say “yo ho ho and a bottle of rum” because the test itself was so freaking weird. You stare into a big white bowl and click a button whenever a light flashes. Simple enough, but you must also stare at an orange dot without flinching and you can only blink while clicking the button.
So I stared and blinked and clicked at anything that looked remotely like a light flash for what seemed like two years. Then the sadist technician numbed my eyes and stuck long paper strips in them to measure tear production. Then she left. So I sat there alone, head tilted back, tears pouring out, wondering if eyes were all that important anyway.
The good news was that my eyes are fine, just a little dry. All I have to do is put my entire life on hold and sit around putting drops in my eyes all day. Fine, I thought, just get me out of here.
##
It’s only due to Charles Schulz that I know what an ophthalmologist does. I always think of Linus and his new glasses, saying “My ophthalmologist says this and my ophthalmologists thinks that,” and Sally in her eye patch, educating the other kids about “lazy eye.”
I did get to wear an eye patch, although I forgot to say “yo ho ho and a bottle of rum” because the test itself was so freaking weird. You stare into a big white bowl and click a button whenever a light flashes. Simple enough, but you must also stare at an orange dot without flinching and you can only blink while clicking the button.
So I stared and blinked and clicked at anything that looked remotely like a light flash for what seemed like two years. Then the sadist technician numbed my eyes and stuck long paper strips in them to measure tear production. Then she left. So I sat there alone, head tilted back, tears pouring out, wondering if eyes were all that important anyway.
The good news was that my eyes are fine, just a little dry. All I have to do is put my entire life on hold and sit around putting drops in my eyes all day. Fine, I thought, just get me out of here.
##
Danger, Danger Everywhere
I've just about had it with women's magazines. Women’s magazine editors believe their readerships want to do four things:
1. Buy stuff.
2. Lose weight.
3. Learn the little-known dangers of peanut butter or post-it notes.
4. Absorb kicky household and parenting tips to amaze family and friends.
Parenting magazines are the worst, especially about No. 3. Good Mothers always disinfect their babies’ pacifiers in special space-age modules (See No. 1) and conduct a 10-point inspection of a playground before use. (“Inspect concrete bases of swing structure, allowing for 20 pounds of pressure per cubic …”)
Actually, that stuff doesn’t bother me much. I just like to gripe. What really upsets me are The Horrific Disorders Lurking in Your Child features. Sometimes its just pinhead mothers writing to ask, “My 1-year-old has a round tummy. Could it be cystic fibrosis?” The rest sound like this:
MOTHER’S INSTINCT SAVES CHILD
Wykker Barnes seemed a perfectly healthy child until age
(INSERT YOUR CHILD’S AGE HERE)
But then Wykker’s mother noticed that her child
(INSERT A COMMON HABIT OF YOUR CHILD’S)
The pediatrician said it was
(INSERT MUNDANE REASON FOR THE HABIT)
But Wykker’s mother had a feeling. “I knew my child,” she said. So she took Wykker to a round of specialists who finally diagnosed the child with
(INSERT HORRIFYING DISORDER HERE)
Now Wykker must wear swimming goggles and a full body cast whenever the barometer reads 29 or above. “We pray every day that Wykker will be able to lead a normal life,” Mrs. Barnes says.
##
1. Buy stuff.
2. Lose weight.
3. Learn the little-known dangers of peanut butter or post-it notes.
4. Absorb kicky household and parenting tips to amaze family and friends.
Parenting magazines are the worst, especially about No. 3. Good Mothers always disinfect their babies’ pacifiers in special space-age modules (See No. 1) and conduct a 10-point inspection of a playground before use. (“Inspect concrete bases of swing structure, allowing for 20 pounds of pressure per cubic …”)
Actually, that stuff doesn’t bother me much. I just like to gripe. What really upsets me are The Horrific Disorders Lurking in Your Child features. Sometimes its just pinhead mothers writing to ask, “My 1-year-old has a round tummy. Could it be cystic fibrosis?” The rest sound like this:
MOTHER’S INSTINCT SAVES CHILD
Wykker Barnes seemed a perfectly healthy child until age
(INSERT YOUR CHILD’S AGE HERE)
But then Wykker’s mother noticed that her child
(INSERT A COMMON HABIT OF YOUR CHILD’S)
The pediatrician said it was
(INSERT MUNDANE REASON FOR THE HABIT)
But Wykker’s mother had a feeling. “I knew my child,” she said. So she took Wykker to a round of specialists who finally diagnosed the child with
(INSERT HORRIFYING DISORDER HERE)
Now Wykker must wear swimming goggles and a full body cast whenever the barometer reads 29 or above. “We pray every day that Wykker will be able to lead a normal life,” Mrs. Barnes says.
##
A Boy and his Baby
I bought Benny a doll last Friday – a little bald baby in a duck costume. His cousin Sophie, 2, has a cartload of baby dolls, and Benny just adores them. I thought Benny would benefit from nurturing a dolly when he wasn’t pushing toy trucks around in a manly manner, so off we went to Toys ‘R’ Us.
Scary place, that store. We go at least once a month. Last time I bought a small picnic table to place in the dining room, dreaming of a happy boy sitting at his table, stacking wooden blocks, munching little snacks, lining up small plastic farm animals.
Instead, if we aren’t constantly vigilant, he climbs on top of the table and dumps books off a nearby cabinet. Ron spent an hour last week yelling, “Sit!" Sit on your butt!” It was a battle of wills, a Clash of the Titans, but it worked well enough that when my sister Cindy said “Sit!” while we were visiting her house, Benny promptly dropped onto his bottom with a thump.
So Benny and I are rolling through the toy store, with Benny sucking on a stuffed Clifford he’d pulled off aisle four. (“DOG!”) I scan the lavish display of dolls – most were swathed in pink, looking like the bald villain from “The Princess Bride” (“INCONCEIVABLE!”).
I finally find a baby in a duck outfit, called a PlayPet. The baby had some colleagues dressed as puppies and kittens or mountain goats or something, but Benny didn’t care. He lunged for the doll, cart straps straining, yelling “Oooh! Oooh!” Then he grabbed it, box and all, his eyes rapturously asking, “Where have you been all my life?” Clifford fell to the floor as I tussled with Benny, trying to see the doll’s price tag. Then I gave up. Like it mattered now.
So now Benny has a doll, complete with a rattle and bottle. I only had to show Benny how to feed his baby once; then he spent the entire ride home pushing the bottle into the doll’s eyes, nose and mouth, humming a tuneless lullaby. At home, he loves to grab and hug it, then drool on its face. Sometimes he gives it kisses; other times he sits on its head. But he loves it. I’ll ask, “Where’s the baby? Where’s your baby?” and he’ll run get it, then climb into my lap – sort of a Mommy holding Baby holding Baby tableau.
Maybe this sounds like I’m making too much of this, but he seems more affectionate since he got the doll. He cuddles more and now tries to kiss Ron and me. He’s learned how to hug; he’ll climb into my lap and fling his arms around my neck in a chokehold. “I love you, Benny,” I wheeze, gasping for air.
##
Scary place, that store. We go at least once a month. Last time I bought a small picnic table to place in the dining room, dreaming of a happy boy sitting at his table, stacking wooden blocks, munching little snacks, lining up small plastic farm animals.
Instead, if we aren’t constantly vigilant, he climbs on top of the table and dumps books off a nearby cabinet. Ron spent an hour last week yelling, “Sit!" Sit on your butt!” It was a battle of wills, a Clash of the Titans, but it worked well enough that when my sister Cindy said “Sit!” while we were visiting her house, Benny promptly dropped onto his bottom with a thump.
So Benny and I are rolling through the toy store, with Benny sucking on a stuffed Clifford he’d pulled off aisle four. (“DOG!”) I scan the lavish display of dolls – most were swathed in pink, looking like the bald villain from “The Princess Bride” (“INCONCEIVABLE!”).
I finally find a baby in a duck outfit, called a PlayPet. The baby had some colleagues dressed as puppies and kittens or mountain goats or something, but Benny didn’t care. He lunged for the doll, cart straps straining, yelling “Oooh! Oooh!” Then he grabbed it, box and all, his eyes rapturously asking, “Where have you been all my life?” Clifford fell to the floor as I tussled with Benny, trying to see the doll’s price tag. Then I gave up. Like it mattered now.
So now Benny has a doll, complete with a rattle and bottle. I only had to show Benny how to feed his baby once; then he spent the entire ride home pushing the bottle into the doll’s eyes, nose and mouth, humming a tuneless lullaby. At home, he loves to grab and hug it, then drool on its face. Sometimes he gives it kisses; other times he sits on its head. But he loves it. I’ll ask, “Where’s the baby? Where’s your baby?” and he’ll run get it, then climb into my lap – sort of a Mommy holding Baby holding Baby tableau.
Maybe this sounds like I’m making too much of this, but he seems more affectionate since he got the doll. He cuddles more and now tries to kiss Ron and me. He’s learned how to hug; he’ll climb into my lap and fling his arms around my neck in a chokehold. “I love you, Benny,” I wheeze, gasping for air.
##
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