Say Cheese ...

People have days they dread. For a long time, I dreaded my birthday. I don't know why - I just never liked celebrating. It was never an issue of age - I am too practical to be bothered by aging - you are born, you age, and then you cease living. So - aging for me is not the issue. I guess I just don't like the attention. I have a good friend who loves birthdays - and I love celebrating with her. But, me - no - I never wanted anything special for my birthday. It is a day I dread. In fact, despite all the nice things that people - my family, my friends - have done for me for my birthday, there is probably just a small number of birthdays - maybe even just one - that stays in my soul. But, when I became a Mom, I quickly found a day I dreaded more than my birthday ... picture day!

Picture day honestly makes me break out in a cold sweat. I've given talks in front of large groups of people, I've interacted with influential individuals - all with grace and ease. But, picture day - is going to age me.

Each year for the past five years, whenever picture day rolls around, I would rather do anything but think about it. And yet, I always feel compelled to give it thought. Mostly, I think about all the Moms who somehow manage to get their kids matching outfits and who then get to hang a perfect picture in their foyer.

And so, as with other picture days, this picture day, I got the letter home informing me which clothing colors look best and asking me what background did I want and I begin to think. I think - I should get matching outfits - I never do. I think - I should braid Emme's hair or get a bow in it - I never do. I think - I should comb the boys hair, I never do. I think I should do something extraordinary because it is picture day. But, I never do. And so, when picture day morning comes around, I become a raving lunatic - trying to get my kids into clothes that are somewhat "cute" and perhaps matching - I at least try not to have uncomplimentary patterns on each child - and then I threaten the kids within an inch of their life not to get their outfits dirty. So, we eat breakfast amidst the tears and my paranoia - all as I try to ask them if they are going to smile for the camera.

And so I thought it would be again this picture day morning. But, instead, the night before as I was pulling glue out of Emme's hair and yogurt out of Nicholas' hair, I sat and wondered as I looked at my kids - why does this day make me crazy? My kids are cute - some of the cutest around - does it really matter what they wear? What is my real worry about this otherwise ordinary day?

Am I worried that the picture will somehow be less than perfect? .... that somehow the photographer's snapshot would define our life and everyone would know that our life wasn't perfect because the picture would hang in our foyer?

And then it dawned on me - as I looked over at five years of pictures --- there was the year that Matthew was 11 months old and didn't get to eat breakfast before his picture so he was pouting in his his picture, something he still does today when he's hungry, then there was the year that Emme had her eyes closed, but had the biggest, warmest smile on her face as if the smile was so big there wasn't enough room in the picture for her beautiful eyes, and then there was the year that it looked like Nicholas was trying to escape out of the picture, but his big brother and big sister gingerly had their hands on his shoulders guiding him back him - life isn't perfect.

What the photographer captures is who we are - with our imperfections. It is how we come not to love the perfect person, but to love perfectly the imperfect person. And so - on this picture day - I let Emme pick her outfit and do her own hair (by the way, she decided that morning that she no longer wanted bangs ...) - I didn't freak out over the chocolate muffin Nicholas got for breakfast - and I simply put a sweater over Lucas when he spit up on his initial outfit. These are the moments of my life - endlessly beautiful, always imperfect ... framing who we are through the memories that we cherish all because despite a lunatic mother, my kids were willing to say cheese ....