Have you ever been out in public and seen (heard) the completely frazzled mom who is yelling at her kids and been slightly alarmed/felt sorry for her/called DCFS?
I'm that mom.
Let me set the stage- it's a lovely Saturday morning in December and I am at the photo studio to have E and M's Christmas portrait taken. My mother bought them the most beautiful and elaborate Christmas outfits (from the ridiculously expensive We're-Overindulged-Only-Grandchildren-Collection) and she wants a portrait for Christmas. Piece of cake.
So we arrive at the portrait studio and I must say that the children are looking radioactively cute. Everyone in the place starts 'ooohing' and 'aaahing' over the kids, the outfits, etc. The kids are even acting the part of perfect Christmas angels too- holding hands and sitting in chairs next to each other. I, on the other hand, haven't even had a chance to take a shower and am still wearing the same underwear from yesterday. And since my husband worked all night, I am by myself, trapped in a sea of Stepford families- all perfectly groomed and coordinated, wearing Christmas outfits, scampering with puppies, and basically looking as if they are going to jet off to Vail for a weekend of drinking hot chocolate and whizzing down the slopes. I can already feel them judging me and staring at the poor, dirty single mom with the adorable children- I wonder why she doesn't have a husband? Doesn't she know about birth control?? Quit staring at me you fuckers! You don't know my life!!
Ahem. Um, anyway...
So the kids keep up the perfect angel act until we actually get into the studio- then all hell breaks loose. They stand in front of the camera for about one nano-second and then start running around like holy terrors- throwing props, jumping off the blocks and stools, climbing up the backdrops (!). As soon as one of them gets in front of the camera, the other one runs behind the backdrop and starts rolling around, knocking shit all over the place. Or one starts grabbing the camera as the other runs out the door and I am torn between chasing the escaping kid or keeping the destructive kid from taking down all the studio equipment and thus making me pay $4,000 for Christmas pictures and the resulting damages.
This is when the yelling begins. (Note that my quiet requests for 'good listening' and 'smiling pretty' have been completely disregarded).
The following is a transcription of what the Stepford Families heard emanating from our studio room:
Loudly, "Come on guys, don't touch that! That's not ours! Now let’s smile pretty and take some nice pictures for Nonna!"
Then louder, "You little monkeys (read: assholes)! Quit climbing please! (Read: get the fuck down!)
And louder, "Seriously guys! NO TOUCHING!"
And finally at full screaming volume, "I AM SERIOUS! NO TOUCHING! GET OVER HERE AND SIT DOWN! YOU GUYS ARE MAKING ME CRAZY! IF YOU CAN'T SIT STILL YOU HAVE TO SIT IN THE STROLLER! DO YOU WANT ME TO GET THE STROLLER! I AM GOING TO THE CAR RIGHT NOW AND GETTING THE STROLLER AND THEN YOU ARE GOING TO SIT IN IT AND BE QUIET AND YOU ARE NOT GETTING ANY COOKIES WHEN WE ARE DONE OR EVER AGAIN FOR THAT MATTER AND WHEN WE GET HOME I AM GOING TO WAKE YOUR FATHER UP AND BEAT THE SHIT OUT OF HIM!!!!"
In the midst of my full-on screaming rant, I notice that the entire portrait studio has gotten eerily quiet. As I slink to the bathroom to change the kids out of their festive party-wear, I feel the stares. I look up, but no one will look me in the eye, clearly afraid that if they make eye contact it might just cause me to shave my head, climb a tower, and start shooting random people. The fact that my unwashed hair is now standing up on end from my numerous attempts to pull it out only heightens the effect. As we make our way out to the waiting area, everyone clears a path for us and starts looking for the nearest exit.
The kicker is, once the children are in public view again, they revert to full-on angel mode. E goes and sits quietly in the corner and watches the video that's playing while M sits calmly in my lap as I spend 20 minutes (and $200) ordering pictures. If Hallmark made a 'Fuck You, Mommy' card, this would be it.
So was my yelling particularly effective? For the children, hell no. It seems that the most effective strategy would have been to pin a $100 bill to each kid and drop them off at the studio, since they clearly didn't listen to a damn thing I said; however, the child welfare agencies frowned upon that plan. But the yelling was cathartic, so I'm going with it. The way I figure, those two little shits are going to spend the next 18 (okay, 30) years fucking with my head and making me a complete basketcase so I'm allowed to yell and blow off a little steam now and then. As far as a shopping strategy goes though, the yelling was rather effective. After all, no one wants the crazy unstable bitch behind them in line at the store.
Studio lighting, cameras, and other equipment: $4, 986
6 months of intensive psychotherapy (for mom and kids): $29, 000
Christmas portraits: priceless (actually, that's bullshit- they were $193.57)
I'm that mom.
Let me set the stage- it's a lovely Saturday morning in December and I am at the photo studio to have E and M's Christmas portrait taken. My mother bought them the most beautiful and elaborate Christmas outfits (from the ridiculously expensive We're-Overindulged-Only-Grandchildren-Collection) and she wants a portrait for Christmas. Piece of cake.
So we arrive at the portrait studio and I must say that the children are looking radioactively cute. Everyone in the place starts 'ooohing' and 'aaahing' over the kids, the outfits, etc. The kids are even acting the part of perfect Christmas angels too- holding hands and sitting in chairs next to each other. I, on the other hand, haven't even had a chance to take a shower and am still wearing the same underwear from yesterday. And since my husband worked all night, I am by myself, trapped in a sea of Stepford families- all perfectly groomed and coordinated, wearing Christmas outfits, scampering with puppies, and basically looking as if they are going to jet off to Vail for a weekend of drinking hot chocolate and whizzing down the slopes. I can already feel them judging me and staring at the poor, dirty single mom with the adorable children- I wonder why she doesn't have a husband? Doesn't she know about birth control?? Quit staring at me you fuckers! You don't know my life!!
Ahem. Um, anyway...
So the kids keep up the perfect angel act until we actually get into the studio- then all hell breaks loose. They stand in front of the camera for about one nano-second and then start running around like holy terrors- throwing props, jumping off the blocks and stools, climbing up the backdrops (!). As soon as one of them gets in front of the camera, the other one runs behind the backdrop and starts rolling around, knocking shit all over the place. Or one starts grabbing the camera as the other runs out the door and I am torn between chasing the escaping kid or keeping the destructive kid from taking down all the studio equipment and thus making me pay $4,000 for Christmas pictures and the resulting damages.
This is when the yelling begins. (Note that my quiet requests for 'good listening' and 'smiling pretty' have been completely disregarded).
The following is a transcription of what the Stepford Families heard emanating from our studio room:
Loudly, "Come on guys, don't touch that! That's not ours! Now let’s smile pretty and take some nice pictures for Nonna!"
Then louder, "You little monkeys (read: assholes)! Quit climbing please! (Read: get the fuck down!)
And louder, "Seriously guys! NO TOUCHING!"
And finally at full screaming volume, "I AM SERIOUS! NO TOUCHING! GET OVER HERE AND SIT DOWN! YOU GUYS ARE MAKING ME CRAZY! IF YOU CAN'T SIT STILL YOU HAVE TO SIT IN THE STROLLER! DO YOU WANT ME TO GET THE STROLLER! I AM GOING TO THE CAR RIGHT NOW AND GETTING THE STROLLER AND THEN YOU ARE GOING TO SIT IN IT AND BE QUIET AND YOU ARE NOT GETTING ANY COOKIES WHEN WE ARE DONE OR EVER AGAIN FOR THAT MATTER AND WHEN WE GET HOME I AM GOING TO WAKE YOUR FATHER UP AND BEAT THE SHIT OUT OF HIM!!!!"
In the midst of my full-on screaming rant, I notice that the entire portrait studio has gotten eerily quiet. As I slink to the bathroom to change the kids out of their festive party-wear, I feel the stares. I look up, but no one will look me in the eye, clearly afraid that if they make eye contact it might just cause me to shave my head, climb a tower, and start shooting random people. The fact that my unwashed hair is now standing up on end from my numerous attempts to pull it out only heightens the effect. As we make our way out to the waiting area, everyone clears a path for us and starts looking for the nearest exit.
The kicker is, once the children are in public view again, they revert to full-on angel mode. E goes and sits quietly in the corner and watches the video that's playing while M sits calmly in my lap as I spend 20 minutes (and $200) ordering pictures. If Hallmark made a 'Fuck You, Mommy' card, this would be it.
So was my yelling particularly effective? For the children, hell no. It seems that the most effective strategy would have been to pin a $100 bill to each kid and drop them off at the studio, since they clearly didn't listen to a damn thing I said; however, the child welfare agencies frowned upon that plan. But the yelling was cathartic, so I'm going with it. The way I figure, those two little shits are going to spend the next 18 (okay, 30) years fucking with my head and making me a complete basketcase so I'm allowed to yell and blow off a little steam now and then. As far as a shopping strategy goes though, the yelling was rather effective. After all, no one wants the crazy unstable bitch behind them in line at the store.
Studio lighting, cameras, and other equipment: $4, 986
6 months of intensive psychotherapy (for mom and kids): $29, 000
Christmas portraits: priceless (actually, that's bullshit- they were $193.57)
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1 comment:
You owe me $12 for the glass of wine (Bordeaux Grand Cru) I just spit out. And a new pair of Victoria Secret underwear because I just pee'd a little laughing so hard at this story. Thanks. Now I have to shower also.
Next time, can you let me know when you are going. I'd like to grab a bottle of wine and a snack and follow you around to see what would transpire.
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