Shoot the kids, hang the family, frame the wife…

Shoot the kids, hang the family, frame the wife…

I am so tired, y'all.

Yesterday, my first thought trickled into my groggy brain: “When can I take a nap?”

Can I get a witness? And then a cup of coffee…

Last month, we scheduled family photos with Memory Mom. By “family,” I mean my husband's extended family.

It's the first time in two years his mother has had all four of her kids in town together. So our shoot included The Matriarch, her husband, her mother, her four children, their spouses, and her 18 grandchildren.

You heard me. Eighteen kids. Including a newborn.

So the plan was this: C-section on Tuesday, photos the next Sunday.

This opened up the weekend for my Boy Scout to go camping with his pack.

Saturday night, I spent two hours ironing. That's pretty much how much time I spent ironing all of last year.

Sunday morning, my husband received this text from his sister: “Can you take baby and me to the emergency room?”

My brain screeched to a jarring halt. Then it revved back up double-time, thoughts jumbling, overlapping, spasming like an overworked muscle.

“What's wrong with the baby? Where are you taking her? Will you be out by five o'clock?

How will this affect our photos? We can't have photos without them, can we? Could we Photoshop them in later?

Will the baby be okay? I haven't even seen her yet!

We can't postpone the pictures, because the other sister is supposed to leave town this week.

Oh my gosh, what's wrong with the baby? Why won't anyone tell me?!”

If I'd have had a Xanax, I probably would have devoured it like a starving lioness.

So, the baby was admitted to Le Bonheur with severe dehydration, and we postponed the pictures.

Meanwhile, remember my Boy Scout? Yeah, he got poison ivy.

On his face.

We noticed puffy eyes Sunday night and administered Benedryl. By Monday morning, he looked like a strawberry Stay-Puft.

We sought medical treatment immediately, and while it did relieve some of his symptoms, by Thursday, his blistered face had transformed into dry, scaly, peeling skin.

Perfect for a close-up… if you're a reptile.

Oh, Photoshop magic, please do your thang with my kid's face.

The day of the evening shoot, I scheduled my afternoon to obviate grooming difficulties. I started with the girls' hair, intending a quick straightening and brushing.

Unfortunately, my pre-teen forgot to wash her hair. For days. And it was greasy like a hamburger.

“Child!” I yelled. “We don't have time for this! Go, quickly, shampoo and conditioner!”

She complaisantly jumped out of the chair and nearly flew to the shower.

Next, I put my youngest daughter on the chair. To straighten, brush, and barrette. I dabbed a smidgeon of Sleek and Shine on my hand to work lightly through her short bob, taming the fly-aways.

Middle daughter interrupted me. I turned my head for less than ten seconds to answer her question. When I turned back, my kindergartener had “helped” with the sleeking and shining, dousing the crown of her head with more shine than sleek, leaving an oily yarmulke.

Another shower. Another blow-dry. Not on the schedule. The timing of the event had been a subject of discussion ever since we arranged it. On an overcast day, we needed to start earlier for the best light. On a bright day, we needed to start later to avoid harsh shadows.

Well, you know how the weather predictions go around here.

We woke up thinking it would be quite overcast by 5 p.m., and perhaps even storming. I mass-texted the group instructions to arrive at the field by five.

Then, Memory Mom adjusted the time to 6 p.m.

A sneaky little plan popped into my overworked brain. I did not relay this new information. I expected the cunctator, The Matriarch, to be late. But if she was late for a five o'clock appointment, she would be right on time for a six o'clock.

However, in the middle of the grooming chaos and hurried prinking, the urgent texts start flowing in: –We are here. Which field, exactly?

Shees, I thought. Even if I knew the toponym, you wouldn't.

–I don't know. Look for the photographer, I texted while finagling a hair-dryer, a straightening iron, and my phone. (This is why I don't believe in evolution. If evolution were true, why in the world have mothers not developed more arms?) I looked at the clock. 4:40 p.m. Family group number one arrived nearly an hour and a half early.

–Here at exactly the prescribed time. Where is every-

“The Marion Mom” By Dorothy Wilson one?

I'm still blow-drying. It's 4:55 p.m. Grandpa has arrived, unbeknownst to him, an hour early.

My third daughter wanted French-braided pigtails. Also not on the schedule. I hollered above the din for her to text her father and tell him to come home right away because I've run out of time.

He did not. Apparently, it wasn't on his schedule either.

At the last minute, I notice greasy splotches on Boy Scout's freshly ironed polo. Lotion to soothe his reptilian face had blobbed onto his shirt. I located the back-up plan shirt and sighed at the wrinkles.

If ironing were an Olympic sport, I would have broken a record.

I'm pleased to say, we arrived right on time. I even had on makeup. (So did Boy Scout, by the way — concealer. Shhh, don't tell.) Guess what? We still beat The Matriarch.

So my scheme succeeded, with only the minor collateral damage that some folks tooled around in a field for an hour.

The 28 of us huddled, shifted, smiled, and posed for an hour before the Matriarch suggested we go to a restaurant together. “Did you make reservations somewhere?” I asked, somewhat surprised at her forethought.

“No, I just thought we could call around,” she answered.

I was stunned. Who would, in tactless gaucherie, lug a group of 28 into a little hometown restaurant on a Thursday night unannounced?

Thankfully, the snuggery, Uncle John's, in Crawfordsville, had staff and food enough for our crowd, and the evening passed with few contretemps.

I spied my neighbor huddled in the back corner. She probably said to herself, “I came out here to get away from all those kids!”

I feel ya, friend. I do.

That's why I want my nap.