The things we do for love
For several years now, my daughter has been asking if she and I could have our photo taken together. As in, professionally. I always shake my head and tell her that we'll have pictures taken of her (by herself) to commemorate her birth instead. Every year, I take her to a studio and have that done just before her birthday. I then distribute the photos to her adoring fans far and wide. She is exceptionally photogenic and loves having her photo taken. Last year, she even gave the photographer some suggestions for poses she thought would work well. I, on the other hand, would rather eat glass than to have my photo taken. And, let's face it - the market for photos of me and my daughter together is pretty small. I can picture my own relatives, scissors in hand, trying to figure out how to crop me out successfully. Don't feel bad for me - I'm used to my lack of popularity by now. A few weeks ago, when I attended the annual meeting for the rescue (an adults-only sort of affair), a couple of my friends/fellow volunteers asked me, "Hey, where's A?" My father (the bio one) is coming to visit in May. This is the first time he has visited us since I moved away in 1995. He keeps blathering on and on about how he can't wait to see his "sweet grandbaby." I hardly have the heart to break it to him that I'll be around during his visit as well. I'm all like Eeyore up in here.
Despite my considerable trepidation when it comes to having my photo taken, I scheduled a photo session for the two of us. Stupidly, I scheduled a haircut the day before. My bangs had been excessively long, a la Old English Sheepdog. Now they are excessively short, a la Kitten, the youngest daughter from "Father Knows Best."* Next, I asked my daughter what we should wear. I pushed for jeans and casual attire. She pushed for ballgowns. She dug through my closet, looking for sparkles and glitter and sequins. Finding none, she eventually gave me permission to wear a nice sweater and jeans. At one point I held up a v-neck cardigan sweater and asked her, "How about this?"
"What would you wear under it?" she asked.
I shrugged. "Nothing, I guess."
"Mo-o-om!" she shouted, horrified. I selected a different sweater. However, I think she is still secretly wondering if I really would have shown up for a family photo with my bosom fully on display. I'll just let her wonder. I'm also blessed with the ability to touch my tongue to my nose. I told her I might pose like that for the photo. She frowned and shook her head.
As much as I wanted to lose 30 pounds, do something about my bangs, have my teeth whitened, etc. before having my photo taken, I suppressed all of that and did it for my daughter. The results are below. Maybe, in ten years or so, she will look over at the mother-daughter photo on her dresser and, in a moment of sentimental clarity, will reel back her plans to have her ne'er-do-well boyfriend, Scab, bump me off because I won't let them be together. Maybe.
p.s. Just before posting this entry, I saw a link to this: http://myfriendteresablog.com/so-youre-feeling-too-fat-to-be-photographed/ True dat.
*Lest you read the "Father Knows Best" reference and wonder, "Christ almighty, how old IS Claudia anyway?" I should point out that my mother is a fan of old TV shows and so I saw every episode of "Father Knows Best," "The Andy Griffith Show," and "I Love Lucy" in perpetual reruns when I was a kid. I also know more about "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers" than I would like to.
Despite my considerable trepidation when it comes to having my photo taken, I scheduled a photo session for the two of us. Stupidly, I scheduled a haircut the day before. My bangs had been excessively long, a la Old English Sheepdog. Now they are excessively short, a la Kitten, the youngest daughter from "Father Knows Best."* Next, I asked my daughter what we should wear. I pushed for jeans and casual attire. She pushed for ballgowns. She dug through my closet, looking for sparkles and glitter and sequins. Finding none, she eventually gave me permission to wear a nice sweater and jeans. At one point I held up a v-neck cardigan sweater and asked her, "How about this?"
"What would you wear under it?" she asked.
I shrugged. "Nothing, I guess."
"Mo-o-om!" she shouted, horrified. I selected a different sweater. However, I think she is still secretly wondering if I really would have shown up for a family photo with my bosom fully on display. I'll just let her wonder. I'm also blessed with the ability to touch my tongue to my nose. I told her I might pose like that for the photo. She frowned and shook her head.
As much as I wanted to lose 30 pounds, do something about my bangs, have my teeth whitened, etc. before having my photo taken, I suppressed all of that and did it for my daughter. The results are below. Maybe, in ten years or so, she will look over at the mother-daughter photo on her dresser and, in a moment of sentimental clarity, will reel back her plans to have her ne'er-do-well boyfriend, Scab, bump me off because I won't let them be together. Maybe.
p.s. Just before posting this entry, I saw a link to this: http://myfriendteresablog.com/so-youre-feeling-too-fat-to-be-photographed/ True dat.
*Lest you read the "Father Knows Best" reference and wonder, "Christ almighty, how old IS Claudia anyway?" I should point out that my mother is a fan of old TV shows and so I saw every episode of "Father Knows Best," "The Andy Griffith Show," and "I Love Lucy" in perpetual reruns when I was a kid. I also know more about "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers" than I would like to.
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