Last night I decided to take my children to the old warehouse district here in town and do their yearly portraits. A friend, Jill, brought her two boys along and we did all of them at the same time. It worked out really well.
Jill's boys have done a delightful job every time I've taken their pictures. Well-behaved, agreeable, poseable. Smile, click, smile, click. Tilt your head to the left just a smidge...click...perfect.
My children, on the other hand, are alot like trying to nail jell-o to a tree. They behave as if I've never let them out of their closets. They run, they jump, they throw rocks, they attempt to throw one another, Dillon picks apart every little thing Dustin is doing--the way he smiles, the way he stands, the way his hair isn't perfect...of course, Dillon's hair is always perfect. He hasn't even discovered hair spray yet, but when he does, I intend to buy stock in that manufacturer and then retire young. Very young.
They are just--well, their mine. Bless their little hearts.
They photograph beautifully, when they cooperate. The problem is, my boys don't like to cooperate when I'm trying to take their pictures.
Once a year.
One two-hour period during 52 weeks.
One two-hour period in 365 days.
I'm not doing the math on how many hours are in a year.
Two hours.
Once a year.
Last year, they made me cry. I was so upset with them, I got in my car and threatened to leave them alongside the road...okay, at the Coal Mine. It's not like I was going to just drive off and leave them alongside I74 or something.
Not that I haven't been tempted, mind you.
I don't understand. It's two hours out of a year.
We did family portraits last week and the boys did well for Chris, our photographer. Except for Dustin's HilterHair. He tends to part it right down the middle to get it out of his eyes. "No, you've got HitlerHair!" I'd fix it and no sooner than I'd sit down for the portrait, I'd see the little runt shake his head and then part his hair. "Come on, maaan! Don't move again!" All the while the photographer is laughing at us.
Funny.
I know, I could always just give them buzz hair-cuts.
But I don't want buzz hair-cuts. They have beautiful hair that frames their beautiful eyes: duck-poop green and glass green, respectively. I like their long hair.
So, last night, we head down to the warehouse district only to learn that although it's a very deserted area on a Sunday evening, we've stirred-up quite a fuss, two women, two cameras and four boys. A police cruiser drives past us...and Jill comments that the sign two warehouses back said no tresspassing.
It did, didn't it?
Fine time to think about that now. We weren't looking for a place to live or a place to spray paint grafitti, or a place to do drugs, we were just looking for a place to take neat pictures.
About the time we closed-up our little operation, here comes a big-wig property owner who shall remain nameless. I knew him, once upon a time, twenty-odd years ago, and I can guarantee you, he did not recognize me...he comes a-whipping through the parking lot doing 30+ mph, window down, cell phone to his ear, "Are you with a studio?"
"No."
And I don't recall what else he said. I was floored. We didn't hurt anything and I'd have asked for permission if only I'd known who to call, but his name and number weren't painted in the grafitti on the warehouse, three warehouses back, so we didn't think to call you.....looks like we're goin' straight to hell for this one--if not jail.
Call a paddy wagon. You're going to need it. Ever since CousinKevlarJimV got tased in his auxiliary police training course, Dillon's been dying to be tased. To lasso my children would probably require a taser.
If not some pepper spray...
Needless to say, he didn't call the law on us, nor did he send a paddy-wagon, but he did sit at the end of the parking lot waiting for us to leave.
Thankfully, we were finishing up when he made his SpeedyGonzalez trip through the parking lot. Saved the day and the warehouses from total rack and ruin.
Whew.
That was close.
I got some really good shots of Jill's boys.
And I got a few good shots of my own.
Most importantly, I captured for all of posterity, some of the more priceless shots of my children, horsing around and doing numerous other unimpressive acts.
I just thought I'd snap a photo of two boys sitting on a dock in the warehouse district.
Instead I got a shot of Dillon, my little angel, digging for gold. I blurred Jill's child out to protect his innocence. Was he thoroughly fascinated? More than likely, he was repulsed by the act of someone shoving their finger up their nose to the third knuckle for nothing other than shock-value.
My boys, hamming it up for the camera.
My darling children.
Clean.
Delightfully pleasant little boys.
Mannerly.
Sweet little angels, buffing their halos whenever the opportunity presents itself.
Well-behaved in any social setting.
Aren't they neat?
Of course, I wouldn't have it any other way...
