School Photos (A Grumble)...

(Apologies for the Grumble, but that’s where I am today, Grumble Town (it's south of London, but so are a lot of places, Africa for one...)).

I get it. 

I do, I get it. Getting a lovely picture of your little ones, done by a reet proper soul stealer photographer person is lovely. 

They're all dressed up smart for school, someone hopefully has attacked the younger ones with a comb, most of the face muck has been cleared off. Anything visibly and obviously terrible and not meant to be there, has been removed...

Photographer: 'Er... without the banner please'

TeenBoy15: <Lowers 'Palps only wanted peace' sign>

Photographer: 'And a nice big smile...'

CLICK

Photographer: 'No finger gestures please'

CLICK

Photographer: 'Better... but no finger gestures at all please you’re not from the ghetto'

CLICK

Photographer: <Sighs> '... and phone away... '

CLICK

TeenBoy15: 'ARGHGGHGHG MY SOUL!!!!' <Sues>

… And the photo you get comes with a reasonable frame, so you can instantly use it for darts hang it on the wall for all to see. 

Cracking!

And they give you free postage, and I frikkin’ love free postage!

That is assuming you can decide if you want the photos in the nano-seconds (a week) they give you to decide.

Any "I'm a bit busy right now, I'll do that later" and you've missed the free postage window, it's now at least a kidney for postage, maybe a leg.

I'm sure they could allow for a double grace period. The first just to scare you, and then a real proper one that is actually a fake and then you get another.

There isn't much to do either, really I don't have to do anything apart from pick the pics and pay!

Because I am already sending the kids into school looking as good as I can be bothered to do possible. Ironed, washed, right clothes on right body parts. Shoes matching. Hair reasonable for polite society, not Halloween bush from the nether realms.

On the day of photos (assuming I remembered), I shove them out (lovingly) looking extra clean and smart. Then a few days later there's a little surprise in their bags, of the photo proofs all saying with text saying "Don't just take a photo of this image and print out yourself" or "sample" or "help, I am being forced to develop photos against my will".

Hair by Daddel Salon (appointments only).

Then all I have to do is pick the "package" I want, pay and then sit back and revel in my lovely new archery targets pictures.

Simples.

Expensive simples actually.

Although is it really expensive? Annoyingly it's notly.

It turns out that had I organised a professional photographer myself, it would have cost at least 1 maybe 2 hundred bananas, and it would have to be at the weekend. Therefore adding my time to the overall banana cost, so let's say 250 bananas max, 150 if it’s a mate that works for bananas and owes you a favour because you lent them a really cool game and they lost it. 

For my bananas I would get billions, literally and actually billions of pics, all looking very similar. Which I'd never do anything with most of them, except one, that every time I looked at it always gave me the heebie-jeebies because it was just too perfect and we were all smiling and looking like we loved and liked each other's company. 

OMFB it would be weird.

<Shudders>

So really, despite the minor heart attacks, each time I have to hand over twelve watermelons for ONE SINGLE image, it's cheaper than it would cost me to do it myself.

So that's a positive... O...

Brainzilla: 'Nice! You realise whilst grumbling you’ve managed to justify their costs? Your main grumble! Out arguing yourself this time, new all time low..."

<Snaps> It is not a new all time low! Top three at worst. What about the noodle incident?

Brainzilla: 'Fair, top three then'

Then there’s the choice.

Oh my sweet deep fried brie, the choice.

So. Much. Choice.

I just want the "normal sized pic please" option. Just like the previous one I had. Matching size would be a win. Same frame and you’re rocking my world not literally.

But that’s not the choice you get is it… IS IT???

You want the choice? 

You can't handle the choice!!!

For example: Pack A is eighteen separate pictures. 

Eighteen! 

I haven’t got that many relatives that I palm pics off to as Xmas pressies. 

And I certainly don’t need eighteen different sized pics of each child on the walls at home. The house would look weird. 

Yeah, come on in…

New Person: ‘O… what a lot of children pics you have…’ <Is still looking over the walls, the floor, the doors, the ceiling… the windows… the sofa… my t-shirt and trousers>

New Person: ‘Actually I have to leave... Now...’ <Leaves in a rush>

<Sighes> Damn you PACK A!!! <Shakes fist at the sky>

And Pack B is only a little better, there’s only fifteen in that.

Remember I want one. One picture.

Pack C is for the nutters, there’s thirty seven. Honestly! 

Thirty seven all the same, but of various sizes, pics.

WHY??? Who would ever need that? I suppose if I was planning a leaflet campaign that could be handy… But thirty seven!

Pack D is heading towards sensible, thirteen pics. 

Pack E three pics. One for each grandparent, and one for me! Which sounds good.

Except that I know despite my Mum despite being very sweet about it, she’s enough pics of my kids. 

She has thirty thousand grand kids roughly, there’s only so much photo hanging real-estate she has in the house. 

(P.S. Mum you’ll never guess what you’re getting for Xmas this year!!! Lard.

Then assuming your will to purchase hasn’t consumed you in a ball of hating and loathing, there’s the fun options.

Fun <Rolls eyes at you>...

A mouse mat! So you can shove a piece of plastic around over the face of your most cherished one.

A cup! So you can fill it with boiling water every day and see their face as you do it, or enjoy putting your lips to something near their face all day.

A stuffed toy wearing a t-shirt with your baby's face on it! WTAF?

And my personal favourite, and new this year to me a water bottle!

Boy8: 'You getting a pic of me?'

Of course I am! <Grumbles on the inside>

<Looks at photo> Yeah it's lovely...

<Looks at price> ... lovely...

Boy8: 'I thought though, that maybe you would want to get the water bottle too!'

Have you met me?

You thought all kinds of wrong then didn't you

Amazing. Every word of what you just said was wrong.

Why would I get that? <Is grateful he doesn't want the mouse matt option>

Why would I want a water bottle with your face on it, or is it for you? 

Why do you want that?

Boy8: 'So we can see my face on the bottle!'

But I can see your face now!

Boy8: 'But not on a bottle!'

... I'm fine with that missing in my life, plus I can see your face now! <Slaps both his face cheeks playfully>

Boy8: <Rubs cheeks> 'But when a friend asks where Boy8 is, I can show them the bottle instead!'

Your friends call you Boy8?

But they'd see you, and your face, with the bottle... <Is getting confused>

Boy8: 'Yes, but they wouldn't know that!' <Says triumphantly>

… but… 

… <Concludes I have lost this discussion>

How about I have a look later and see if I can afford it, OK?

Boy8: <Skips off happy>

<Already knows how that 'look' will go>

<Only orders one water bottle>

And then the option that makes me want to break down and weep every time.

You can buy the digital images so you can print them yourself. Hooray!

Oh sweet, well surely that’s cheaper… Short story it’s not.

The digital pics are actually more than the reasonable Pack, urghghgh.

Fine they gotta make money, that’s the world we live in.

But urghghgh and yuk and urghhgh again. It just leaves a bad taste in the mouth.

It’s like picking up a cold cup of tea and you end up having a sip and regretting it. Urghghg.

Then you have to make another cuppa to clear away the taste, and it’s not the same cuppa as the cold one was, it’s good, but you miss the one you didn’t finish, somehow that one was better, everything was right about it, and it hurts, it hurts bad… I may have lost my way with this metaphor… run away! Run away!

Accomplice: ‘I thought you said it was gonna be a big score?’

It was! These are worth a fortune!

Accomplice: ‘Money would’ve been better!’

<Is eating ill gotten gains> … suppose… but then I’d be hungry and thirsty

Accomplice: ‘Next time we hit a bank’

Sperm or blood?

Anyhoo…

When I started writing this blog post I had only TeenBoy15’s photo proof to decide on, and Boy8’s.

But lucky me, Miss11's turned up today.

I now have three pics to decide on, one of Miss11’s first year at secondary school, one of TeenBoy15’s last year at secondary school, Boy8 continuing at the same school. And I'll let you into a secret, one of them, I am not saying which, I don’t actually like the picture. 

I don't want it.

So do I hand over, begrudgingly, my hard earned 45 cantaloupes and get all three pics.

Or do I have to look into one of their little eyes and explain why this time, despite me loving them ever so much, and they being every so lovely and wonderful, I didn’t get your pic as you looked a bit crapo that day.

It’s a tricky choice. 

But I am sure I’ll make the right choice for me and mine.

<Dives into paddling pool filled with cantaloupe juice, has the best time>

<Is sick later due to the cantaloupe juice, but it feels unrelated>

X

Watermelon...

It was a normal work day.

I was sat at my desk, definitely working, like I should and am always doing.

At work. Working. <Shifty eyes>

My Mum, A.K.A. Grandma, the Grandma (the other’s a Grannie), was soon to pick BabyBoy3 up from nursery.

And I would meet them both for lunch.

Everything just like normal, and going like clockwork.

<Rolls eyes>

My phone rang.

[I’m a barbie girl, in a barbie world]

It was my Mum and she had a flat tyre. And was not going to get to BabyBoy3 in time.

Which is bad because if BabyBoy3 stays nursery past 1pm he will turn into pumpkin they will charge us for the rest of the day.

Ain’t they sweet!

Obv. my first thoughts were utter concern for my mother.

Not that my lunch plans were now ruined. And who was going to pick up Miss6 later on.

No. Concerniness for my mother.

Luckily BiggestBrother (I have three bros) had been alerted. And he was whizzing his way to Mum to remove the old tyre. Swear a bit when hit his fingers. And then put the new tyre on.

But when would Grandma be rescued and on her way?

Well no one knew.

No one. <Shakes fist>

Mrs. Amazing was miles away.

Solving crimes, thwarting evil geniuses, flicking naughty people. Normal stuff.

Her help was unlikely. I however work very close to BabyBoy3.

And am just about to take my hour lunch.

Hmm… A solution was starting to form in my head…

[At Boy10’s school]

Pssst… Boy10

Boy10: ‘What? Go away… You’re not meant to be here’

Yeah… what should I do about BabyBoy3?

Boy10: ‘You’re the adult’

I am bloody not!

Boy10: ‘Yes <Sighs> Yes you are… father…’

<Sticks up fingers>

Boy10: ‘Tell work you have to leave, and you have child care problems…’

Of course! Brilliant... Why didn’t you say that before?... Sheesh...

Laters! <Runs>

SchoolMate: ‘Was that? Your Dad?’

Boy10: ‘Nope… Never seen that man before in my life…’

So that’s what I did.

I explained the situation to work. And scarpered.

I am legally responsible for BabyBoy3 and legal stuff is just enough to trump works claim on me. Wooohooo!

Obv. they said I can make the time up later.

WhoooBooo...

I get to nursery.

And I am pretty sure BabyBoy3 will be happy to see me. He had been asking all morning if I would pick him up today. And Obvs. I had said no.

Which had made him cry. A lot. And I felt guilty. But I really could not pick him up.

And here I was, about to pick BabyBoy3 up, just like he wanted.

Life can be a swine cad sometimes.

I have to wait whilst the nice nursery lady gets him.

Non-nursery staff, not even the parents, are not allowed into the nursery.

Which is a shame as it would be nice to see where he plays. But rules are a rules.

And whilst it would be fun to go charging in there knocking nursery workers aside.

I doubt I would get more than a foot, before I got sat on.

I can see BabyBoy3 through the door.

As he is being told I am here to get him. His little face lights up. And my day is made already.

BabyBoy3 runs towards me and I scoop him into my arms. He’s giggling and very happy to see me.

His sun hat comes off his head and he puts it on mine. And I look ridiculous (moreso) with a tiny hat on head. And as my arms are full. I am quite stuck like that.

BabyBoy3 tells everything he has done today. About the Duplo he was playing with. The digger. There are no trains. All the important stuff from his day. NO TRAINS.

The hat is finally removed.

And as if she was waiting for the hat to be removed. The nursery lady starts reading me the sheet of paper she is showing me.

I resist pointing out I can read.

As we walk home.

BabyBoy3 refuses his wobble bike and I have to carry it. Sigh. It's just the right height to be awkward to carry.

I explain what happened to Grandma. And her tyre.

BabyBoy3 doesn't quite understand so I say the tyre exploded.

The rest of the walk home is filled with BabyBoy3’s mad talk about how Grandma’s tyre exploded and blew up lots of houses and we would have to call Fireman Sam.

I had just left work. My head wasn’t quite ready for mad little boy talk yet.

I just let him natter on. Nodding every now and then.

By the time we get home. I am not much clearer on what he is trying to tell me.

And a bit concerned about how many houses BabyBoy3 thinks a tyre will take out.

I'm also hungry.

Which means BabyBoy3 might be hungry too.

BOOM! Dad skills. Empathy. However BabyBoy3 declines anything I offer him. The nursery lady did say, and I read on the sheet, that he hadn't eaten much.

Instead BabyBoy3 rushes off to play with the huge Duplo train he had made this morning.

Not that you are allowed to call it a train. It’s called a campervan.

Despite it being made of train parts, looking like a train, having wheels, and ticking every single smegging box on a ‘Is it a train' form.

I also get told off for making poop-poop noises every time he moves it.

<Chuckles>

(A classic Caravan… NOT train....)

I try BabyBoy3 with some chocolate biscuits.

That’s gotta be a winner. That Mrs. Amazing had made. I have five one myself, and offer him one. Which he takes. And that’s my feed-him job done. Except he doesn’t eat it, and leaves it.

After eating it on his behalf I have an idea what he may eat and like.

And even better, I need a huge knife to cut it up. YAY!

MAHHHAAHAAAAHHAAAA!

Watermelon.

It’s a beautiful fruit isn't. If you open and look inside it really is quite stunning.

It’s also well yum shoved in your face-gob munch-hole too.

As the image shows. I manage to cut it up badly. Not sure how I managed to do it that badly. Could have been the little voice next to my head rabbiting on about his train, ARGHH CARAVAN, that did it.

Who knows. It was BabyBoy3.

(Reet tasty mush filler)

Then in classic Dad fashion.

Food is dumped on the table. No mats. No cutlery. Eat with fingers. And eat quick before I eat it all.

Standard Dad food sharing rules.

I finally relax.

And realise I've got some bonus time with BabyBoy3. And we've nothing to do. Just us two.

But to sit there eating watermelon together. Pips and all. Waiting for me Mum to get there.

He keeps laughing about how Boy10 would eat the skin. That's sooo Boy10.

BabyBoy3 tries it. We both agree it's yukky.

And giggle some more.

BabyBoy3 looks up at me and smiles.

Before grabbing some more watermelon. I wonder why he smiling. But I think I know.

I am still sat there with him. I'm not getting up to tidy anything. I'm not rushing out of the door. I’m not fixing anything. I am just sat there with him.

BabyBoy3 smiles at me again and grabs more watermelon.

I'm on my fifth slice.

I take a rare chance to look at my lovely little boy sat in front of me.

He is utterly scrummy. He’s sat on his knees, on a stool, and even so, he can just see over the table in front of me.

He's really still very tiny. About a quarter of me. Big beautiful blue eyes. Huge head.

There’s bruises on his knees probably from knee slides and general falling over throughout the day. One finger is pissed as a newt plastered as he has a hangnail which he claims Boy10 gave him. (But no one believes him when he says that).

There's snot encrusted around the bottom his nose. It's gross. But I've got used to ignoring that. Can't spend all your time wiping their noses.

His hair is sticking out a little madly. Just like mine.

And BabyBoy3 keeps looking up at me with a huge smile on his face. Whilst munching watermelon. He is such a happy little chap.

What a little angel.

And I realise (guess) why he's so happy.

BabyBoy3 is clearly utterly stoked (happy) his Dad. His main male role model.

Is sat at the table, all proper like. Just with him, eating watermelon, just with him. And we're doing the exact same thing, together. Melon juice everywhere.

It's pretty cool.

I wonder if this will become an early memory for him, of me and him.

It might not. But it felt pretty special.

So it might.

<Blows raspberry at you nay sayers>

(Right! That’s my share…)

Eventually Grandma arrives.

It’s been three years? WTAF? <Moves beard>

Spare tyre fitted.

BiggestBrother new favourite son. The moment BabyBoy3 saw Grandma’s car he hopped down from the table and started doing his Grandma's here dance.

Which I didn’t know he had. Or existed. Or how good it was.

His little fingers in the air and wiggling his whole body about.

BabyBoy3: ‘Grandma's here! Grandma's here! Grandma's here!’

Cute as.

He runs to the front door.

And proper run too. Something you can only do without fear. Thudding away.

I'm only a few steps behind him and open the door for him.

And the first thing he shouts at Grandma in his excitement.

Despite me stood right next to him…

BabyBoy3: ‘Grandma! Daddy's here!!!’

BabyBoy3: <Points>

<I wave>

Grandma: <Waves back>

Bless that little looney.

X