Thursday, 18 October 2012

One is the Craziest Number...

My husband is gone. He has abandon us to go on training for his new job. For six weeks. 

Six. 

Weeks. 

As my dear friend Mark would say, "That shit is cray."

Cray, yes, but also an excellent opportunity to get some things done that darling little Bradley would drag his heals at and piss and moan over. Such as getting Avery's picture taken for a Christmas card. 

So I called up my favorite photographer, the ever amazing Andrew Smith, and made him aware of the fact that my little beauty was in desperate need of some professional photo documentation. He was all about it and asked how I would feel about some mommy-daughter pics to go along with it. 

How would I feel about it? Kid yourself, Andrew. Look at me! I'm gorgeous! Shoot away, I know I'm secretly your muse, you don't have to say it out loud. 

We decided that the best time to take some pics would be at about supper time because the lighting was nice and all that shit. The night before the pictures I prepared my outfit, did my nails, got new boots and obtained a curling iron. I was going to be a MILF if my life depended on it. 

I put Avery down for a nap at about 1. The pictures were to be at 5 so I decided I better start getting ready immediately. 

I whipped out the curling iron and turned it's setting up to 5000 degrees Celsius. There's nothing as satisfying as the smell of burning hairspray as you're crafting your mane into an amazing at home do, let me tell ya. 

Thirty six minutes later I looked like a cross between an asshole that had been caught in a windstorm and Bridgette Jones when she lost her head cover while riding in a convertible. I started to panic. There was so much product and burnt hairspray in there that I was concerned my hair had mutated into an animal and would devour my brush if I attempted to tame it. My hair is too short for a sock bun so I reverted to the old faithful "messy bun" and hoped for the best. 

I donned my outfit and proceeded to coat my dark circles in makeup. After my sixth coat of mascara, I heard Avery announcing from her crib that she was awake. Perfect timing. 

After wrestling her into the sweetest outfit I could find, we headed out and met Andrew at a lovely park. The lighting was great, the colors of the leaves were beautiful, and Avery was bat shit crazy. 

I couldn't believe this was happening to me. She wouldn't sit down, she wouldn't be picked up, she kept walking or crawling away from the camera. She screamed like someone who was being murdered while I was trying to change her coat, and morphed into a bag of snakes whenever I would try to pick her up. I'm pretty sure she gave Andrew the finger at one point and mouthed the "F" word to him, but I can't be sure. 




Who was this child? This lunacy wasn't supposed to occur for another nine months, she's only one! 

I started out apologizing to Andrew for taking so long to get her settled. This turned into muttering to myself, "I can't believe this is happening", and finally to full blown swearing and at one point a flying head scissors. 

By the end of the shoot, I was literally sweating. I had applied deodorant that promised 12 hours of protection just before leaving the house, but I'm confident that I used up at least seven of those hours between 5 and 6 pm. 

The number of jumps, high kicks, and round offs that were performed in that park to get that child to smile would have qualified me for an Olympic event if there had been anyone around to witness it. At the very least, a cheer-leading competition. Gabby Douglas would have wept with defeat at the sight of me. 

Andrew managed to get the pictures that I requested, but I'm sure he wasn't sad to see me leave. I'm going to be generous and give him a little extra time to edit those doozies because he's probably going to have to photoshop the claw marks off my face and the horns off Avery's forehead. 

Actually, who am I kidding? I started cyber bullying him as soon as I got through the door.  

The pics will follow once the magician works his magic, and when they do come, I want to hear nothing regarding my hair. 

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