Reflections of a non-portrait picture taker

December 23, 2007

Before the little man was born I vowed that I would get lots and lots of great professional photos taken of him. As the third of three girls I had very few candid photos to prove my existence, and even fewer studio photos. One studio photo to be exact. Well, one of me and another taken the same day of me and my sisters. I swear looking at family photo albums, you would think that my family slowly drifted into poverty as each daughter was born, which was definitely not the case. There are countless studio photos of my oldest sister, and then a few of my other sister, and then of course, the one of me. Now I know that my parents did not see me as any less important than my sisters. They did after all pay money so that I could pursue every one of my many interests from three on; swimming, gymnastics, drums, clarinet, piano, organ, (Okay, that was my dad's desire, not mine. Damn "Pizza and Pipes".) jazz dance, civil air patrol, fiction writing, modeling, and the list goes on and on until adulthood. Okay, it still goes on. But this is not about how spoiled I am. This is about how I came to use Chuck E Cheese, to document my son's growth.

I had the best of intentions. Really. I begged my mom to purchase a Sear's smile saver club membership so that I could forgo any sitting fees until after little man's second birthday. And I even took him. Once. When my parents were here. And my mom asked me to go. And she bought the pictures. And just like my parents, I love my child very much. Maybe too much considering how much time I spend obsessing over every little rash, bloody lip, mild fever, or slight delay in reaching a milestone. I actually wrote out every word he was saying at 24 months, because he was behind on the 18 month old language milestone chart in every parenting book I could get my hands on. Yah. I know. There are a lot of those books. Fortunately at 2 he had a language explosion and all my months of worrying were for nothing. But the point I am trying to make, is that the kid is very important and special to me. You should see our credit card bills. And I haven't been shopping for myself since who knows when so I must be spending it on him.

So, why have I never had more professional photos taken of my little treasure? Because Chuck E Cheese has an excellent photo booth. You have to experience it to know, but let's just say that the picture comes out looking like a portrait. And, it costs a mere token. Could one ask for a better deal? I don't think so. In addition to this magical machine whose workings I cannot understand, they have a camera on one of their kiddy rides, that does an excellent job of capturing a candid moment with Mr. Cheese himself. Okay, okay.

In actuality, I am completely lazy and the idea of wrestling my tiny terrorist into an, itchy, overpriced, worn-only-once, makes-him-look-nerdy, I-hope-it-doesn't-clash-with-the-boring-background, appropriate outfit, and then dragging my sloth-like self to a photo studio filled with snotty nosed tired and hungry kiddies, and then waiting forever for our turn at having the sweet 19 year old "photographer" annoyingly attempt to convince me that I really need 225 photos of the one decent shot, you know to send to all those distant relatives that will open my card, glance at the photo, and then shove it into a dust covered photo box to properly scrapbook at a later date, sounds like a horrible way to spend an otherwise relaxing morning with my little guy.

I'd rather be at Chuck's place, rotting my son's brain on meaningless video games and turning in tickets for cheap, possibly toxic toys made in China for a miniscule fraction of the amount that I have to spend for my son to win them. We have fun there. We laugh and run around, and dance with the giant rat? mouse?, and I get to be a child again right alongside him. These are the memories that I want to preserve. And maybe that is what my parents eventually learned. That the photos mean nothing without the enjoyment behind them and that you can't buy that for $19.95 plus tax. At the very least, his future siblings will never be able to say that I obviously loved the little man more since I cataloged his every milestone in pictures. In fact, his very existence may come into question. As long as they don't get a hold of my credit card statements.