Family pictures . . . does the thought strike fear into your heart? I spent a whole weekend in search of clothes that matched without being cutesy. We pulled our 9-year old out of school two hours early for the appointment. I gave my 5-year old tons of warning and emotional preparation, hoping that she would cooperate. The last time I took her to the photographer’s studio, she ran off crying. (She was three.)
But my mother-in-law called and told me she wanted pictures of the kids for Christmas and since my boys do school at home, they have no school pictures. And this was the perfect opportunity to schedule a family picture. Plus, I’m not as fat as I used to be (I’ve lost 55 pounds, you know). Do it now before my neck totally turns into a turkey waddle.
The photographer, Crystal, is the best. She’s fast, sweet, gentle, funny and efficient. Today I rushed to the studio to pick out the pictures. I had an hour to drive over, choose the pictures and drive home.
Oh. Hello, disjointed post! Did you know I’m working now? Twenty-two hours a week, until next week when I work 29 hours a week. In January, I’ll be up to forty hours a week. Yes, a full-time employee with (gasp!) benefits. And I work at home. How lucky am I? I know. Very, very.
But I’ve done no Christmas shopping. I think we might have to celebrate Christmas on Valentine’s Day. I’m just too busy. Friday morning at 6:30 a.m., I’ll be driving with my mother and my 101 and a HALF year old grandmother to Oregon to attend my aunt’s funeral. (My poor aunt was very ill for a long time.) Three hours there and back.
So, the family pictures will be done in three weeks. How long until Christmas? My neighbor said the other day, “Oh look! Christmas is one month from today!” and I said, “TAKE THAT BACK!” Because, really. I’m not ready or even close to ready. I told the kids we’d decorate Friday, but now I’ll be in the back seat of my mother’s sedan for six hours on Friday, reliving what it was like to go on long car trips as a child.
One word, no, two words: Carsick sister. (My parents just gave her a coffee can to throw up in so we didn’t have to stop. And we were too poor for hotels, so my parents took turns driving day and night across the country . . . to Wisconsin from Washington state. Oh, yes. Fun.)
We had pizza for dinner tonight and it was rather ghastly, but only cost $5 a pizza. A bargain, right? Especially when you’re feeding teenagers who have hollow legs (as my dad used to say). Speaking of my dad, how can it be that he died three weeks after he turned 47 and my husband will turn 47 next summer? That is one weird time warp.
Incidentally, you should know that I don’t dance. At all. Ever. Dancing was a sin in the eyes of my childhood church. Some of the kids I went to church with even received permission to miss the square dancing unit in P.E., lest their souls be cursed, I guess. I personally square-danced, even though I was loathe to touch the sweaty hands of the junior high boys. So, I guess I did dance. But I don’t dance anymore because I have no innate rhythm.
But I can type really, really, really fast.