I got a new camera for the unique purpose of taking cute photos of my kids (and because Best Buy had no-interest financing and Mr. Bennet still felt bad about the belated Valentine’s Day camera I returned last February.) In August Tara and I road-tripped to San Francisco by way of Vegas (not a very direct route, if you’re wondering), where I took a crash course in real photography from Nicole Hill. And what I learned there is that I really don’t want to take photos like Nicole, I want to be Nicole.
But I needed something a little more long-term to cement the aperture and ISO thing, so I started a community ed photo class last night, where I was shocked to see the room full of other thirty-something women with brand-new DSLR cameras who want to take cute photos of their kids.
For some reason my love of technology is not really translating to a desire to memorize the f-stop thirds and shutter-speed intervals, so I worry that our “investment” will pay off sometime in 2028, when Sally makes do with a fuzzy image for her wedding announcement.
But I can’t complain about the quality of the models I have to work with here. Looking at them through a nice lens is about as forgiving of their naturally irritating tics as watching them in sleep.
(Let’s also call these our back-to-school shots, since that actual morning I put the camera on automatic by pointing the arrow at the big A which turns out to be “aperture-priority” or some such nonsense and those didn’t turn out so well. I know Nicole told us to never set our cameras to automatic again, but it turns out I have a latent talent for disregarding instruction.It hardly needs saying that these have not been retouched, as the only thing I hate more than WordPress (which I love! keep working for me, baby!) is Photoshop.)
Mr. Bennet and I can both roll our tongues, so Sally’s genetic virtuosity has not caused any problems.
Susan got her eyes from my mother, who has one brown eye and one green eye (both with gold-ish undertones).
Spot tells me I can only eat her up “a little bit.”
I took out Sally’s stitches right after this picture. They’d scabbed over a bit, so a couple of them I had to finish pulling out while she slept that night, after coating the area in triple antibiotic ointment and promising Heavenly Father I’d never sin again as long as I didn’t have to admit to the InstaCare that I’d tried a bit of homedoctoring.
When we were shopping for backpacks last month, Susan pleaded for a pony play kit similar to one her cousin has. I conceded that her cousins do have lots of pretty shiny toys, then finally in a fit of frustration I said that their daddy doesn’t live with them so sometimes he gets them expensive presents to play with, and wouldn’t she rather have her daddy around all the time, even if it means not having all the latest toys? And Susan said, no, she’d rather her daddy stayed away because she would really like to have that pony stable set.
Spot still has Duane Syndrome.
When we drop Susan off for preschool two days a week, Spot is disconsolate. Once she’s home, the Jane Austen/Louisa May Alcott/Rainbow Valley rejoicing in sisterly affection lasts until Spot bites or Susan hits. Reminds me of the good old days when I used to kick Marcy under the covers at night. Now I kick Mr. Bennet every so often, but it’s not quite the same.