Watch the Birdie

The consolation prize to not having the kids with me to truly celebrate the first day of school was the fact that they'd be with me for picture day.

In years past, as we shopped for back to school clothes, we'd set aside a little time to find the perfect outfit. Flattering color, photographable pattern, styles that the kids won't feel dorky in but that won't look too trendy when they are hanging from the wall of GrandmaStella's nursing home room. But this year we skipped that step. Pat could not care less about what he's wearing for any occasion, and Hil was going to defer the decision until she could observe what other girls were deeming acceptable this school year. Not a problem. How awful could it be to figure it out the weekend before?

I had no idea what I was in store for this year.

I should have guessed that there'd be trouble the moment the prior school year ended and Hil morphed from a darling little impressionable girl to an argumentative, eye-rolling little pisspot overnight. And Pat, he'd sooner skip the argument about it, agree to what I select, and change from a pressed and starched collared shirt into some militant snarky T-shirt he's hidden in his backpack.

I have gone through Hil's closet and dresser and have assembled at least 4 separate and distinct outfits from which she can choose. I ask her opinion first, which is where the trouble begins. She has elected to wear short shorts and a sporty, logo T-shirt from Aeropostale.

Not.

And this is where the You're-Not-Wearing-That-For-Picture-Day-Yes-I-Am argument begins, and ensues for several hours. I begin to arduously suggest and rave about all manner of alternate selections. I even dip into my own wardrobe (there is always a lot of appeal there, or used to be) and I am met with eye-roll upon foot tap upon wince at the suggestions.

I finally get smart and find a cute hippy-chick peasant top she wore to a party the week before and had gotten loads of compliments. I up the ante by ironing it before presenting it to her, and further, offer to let her wear my jewelry.

"Look, Hil! You looked great in this last week. And you know what would look great with it? If you promise not to lose it, I'll let you wear my cool Lucky Brand necklace with the beads and turquoise. And since you now have pierced ears, I could let you wear my turquoise bangle earrings. The ones I got in Arizona? The ones made by a real Indian? The ones that are supposed to bring good luck, and ...ummm, clear skin?" I lie. "You'd look so cool."

Cool. That makes more convincing an argument than pretty. You either are pretty or you are not. Cool is a look you have to work at.

Eventually, she agrees to the shirt, and in an effort to thoroughly reject me and anything that reeks of me, she picks out her own necklace and earrings and is quite proud of herself.

The next day, while I am styling her hair, Pat attempts to sneak down the steps unnoticed.

Hello, I drive you to school. I am going to notice what you are wearing eventually.

I catch up with him on the run and nearly faint at the sight. After all the bickering and haranguing that he witnessed between Hil and me the prior night, he somehow thought he was going to get away with wearing a Beavis and Butthead graphic T-shirt.

"Pat!" I shriek. "I told you you couldn't wear something like that!"

"No, Mom. You said the shirt couldn't say something snarky. This doesn't say anything!" I am not entirely sure he isn't serious.

We march back upstairs and the fur begins to fly in earnest. And the clothes. Drawer by drawer we go through the wardrobe and he systematically rejects each outfit. I try reasoning. I ask him to imagine GrandmomStella having a hissy fit when she gets the pictures and he's wearing two hatefully dorky and insipid characters that are so completely unappealing even kids don't like them. I even suggest that he wear the logo-free shirt I have in my hand and change into the snarky shirt after the photos are taken. It is turning into quite a showdown and the clock is ticking toward the late bell. I am nearly hyperventilating.

Eventually, he wordlessly changes into a shirt I don't love but is not universally offensive. I am sure he will be in such a sour mood the scowl will be affixed to his face long after the picture has been taken. No one will notice the shirt for the grimace.

But just the same, before they leave, I sweetly inspect each of their youthful faces for signs of toothpaste or breakfast, fix a few stray strands of squeaky clean hair, heap on the praise, nod in approval and compliment them both repeatedly as we step out to the car.

I hate that the day has begun this way and wonder how it would have gone at Lars' house. Sometimes I feel like I have no idea what I am doing.