Photo Flop

Anyone who enjoys taking family photos has not had children. Believe me, there is no such thing as a pleasant group portrait session. Don’t get me wrong. I love looking at beautiful pictures, especially on Facebook. Smiling faces and cute poses that make us all wish we belonged to that particular, totally organized, having-fun-around-the-clock family.

But no one posts the in between photos. The crazy before and after shots as the family is gathering, the final attempts when everyone is tired and the little kids are pinching each other, the dozens of pictures when someone’s eyes are closed or someone’s tongue is out. Nope. Family photos are an experience in and of themselves.

I generally only share pictures that show our family displaying a serene lifestyle where we love each other 24-7. But last week we had a photo experience too classic not to share.

It started after our baby boy was born, and I had the inspirational idea (never mind that it’s summer) to take our family Christmas pictures early. After all, we have a built-in baby Jesus, plenty of shepherds and angels, and even a goat barn. What could be cuter than a live nativity photo? Of course, we would all be six months older once Christmas rolled around and we actually shared the photo with our family and friends, but that was beside the point. Our baby was small in July, and we had to take advantage of the moment.

It was also no small coincidence that my in-laws had recently bequeathed to us their collection of authentic Middle Eastern robes, sashes, sandals and headpieces. We were set!

On Sunday afternoon after a peaceful naptime, I announced my nativity plan to the kids. Unfortunately, my enthusiasm was not shared by everyone. The teens were less than thrilled, and the littles immediately started vying for angel and shepherd parts. “We have robes for everyone,” I promised, and herded our energetic bunch into the room where the clothing trunks were.

Within seconds the costumes and sashes were out — strewn over the couches and floor — and our house looked like the backstage of the world’s largest nativity. Everyone was trying on headdresses and robes, running in and out grabbing belts and sandals, and talking louder than their neighbor about what part they wanted. I ran from wise man to shepherd, covering up jeans that were peeking through and advising about what looked most authentic. (Later, my mother-in-law informed us that the girls were wearing boy headdresses, and my oldest son was only dressed in desert undergarments. I hope my Middle East friends don’t check Facebook.)

Dusk was upon us, so before we lost our precious evening light, I grabbed a few glass vases I hoped would pass as wise man gifts and herded our herd outside.

“Hurry everyone!” With robes and headdresses flapping, we all broke into a run, across the lawn, past the garden and swing set, toward the goat pasture. “I hope the neighbors aren’t watching,” breathed my mortified son.

My husband unchained the gate and we all made our way to the goat shed. Unfortunately, the enthusiasm that my older children lacked was made up for by the startled goats. Roused from munching their Sunday dinner, they were delighted to suddenly have a field full of playmates. I won’t attempt to describe in writing the goat noises they made as they dashed toward us, jumping and butting their horns in the air. Whatever sounds they did make were soon drowned by the screams of our smallest children. Our usually quiet pasture became a chase scene of animals and biblical characters.

Grabbing a harness, my husband and teenagers jumped into action, trying to calm our animals, but to no avail. They soon abandoned the ropes and instead grabbed our smallest angels, hoisting them up onto the shed roof out of danger. As the noise died down, we heard laughter and saw not one, not two, but three of our neighborhood families leaning over our fence and laughing.

“We were out walking,” they wheezed between laughs. “But this is way more entertaining.”

With our evening sun almost gone (and to the delight of the gawking neighbors), we assembled ourselves into a nativity crowd below the trembling angels. I held our white-clad baby in my arms, trying to look like a calm Madonna as my heart slowed.

One neighbor came into the field to take the picture, but our goats didn’t like her either. Another neighbor offered to help and took the prancing goats into the shed while the camera snapped. “Are you finished?” he asked, peeking his head around the corner and into our picture just as the last camera flashed. What’s one extra shepherd with glasses and a baseball cap?

By this time the mosquitos were thick, the angels on the roof were sobbing and our baby Jesus was hungry. While my husband held the goats at bay, we bee-lined back to the house, waving goodbye to our cheering fans and dumping sashes and sandals on the way.

Hours later when the costumes were folded and the children tucked into bed, and I finally looked at the rolls of photos on both cameras. Did any of the dozens of pictures actually work? Well, you’ll just have to check Facebook around Christmas time to find out.