Anne Geddes is my hero.

Some time last week my mom mentioned that she didn’t have any pictures of the Baby to put in a frame on her mantel alongside the other grandchildren. Not a one. I started to say, “Well, I’ll get one to you,” but then it occurred to me that I didn’t have one to give her. I had plenty of iPhone pics, but nothing frame-worthy.

So, then I started thinking about what I consider to be the painstaking process of taking the Baby to a real portrait studio to have her picture made. And, I thought about how they were sure to lure me in with some special promotion and then pull out all sorts of cheesy props and backgrounds and sucker me into spending an exorbitant amount of money on sheets of wallet-size prints that no one will every really carry around in their wallet. And, this would happen only after we spent no less than three hours at the studio tucked into a tiny room where the Baby would be crying and the other two girls would be wildly chasing each other in the lobby begging to go to Chic-fil-A as promised while the salesperson/photographer would be trying to sell me a set of coffee mugs or an afghan with the Baby’s picture emblazoned on it.

No, thank you.

We’ve been there and done that a few times, and things like this happen:

Though it looks eerily similar to a World War II photo taken circa 1943, that would be the Preschooler at age nine months.

I promise she was a happy baby.

So, in thinking through all my photo options, it occurred to me that we own a decent camera, and I could attempt to take some pictures myself. Surely I could make up for my lack of photography skills and proper lighting with a little willpower.

Two hours and 123 pictures later, I decided to call it a day. I had stood on my head. The Baby had accidentally stood on her head in an unfortunate mishap during one of the poses involving a basket. {That’s harder than they make it look}. I had sweated. The Baby had spit up, more than once. In fact, by the end of the morning she was so sick of the posing that I promise she almost taught herself to sit up and walk away. We were both over it, and screaming ensued.

But, in the end, I had earned a few decent photos.

Most importantly, I’ve developed a deeper appreciation for real photographers and the results they’re capable of producing when their subjects are less than twelve pounds and less than cooperative. It’s not easy being cheesy for that long.

Happy weekend!