Why Can't Kids Smile

A few weeks ago, my brother, D, got a new bike. Now, understand that when I say bike, I mean Harley Davidson Road King. It's a bike like a broadsword is a letter opener, but alas, this is the vernacular.

In any case, he wanted to take pictures of the girls sitting on said bike. First, Brynna. She hopped on, struck a pose and smiled like a runway model. Strike that, runway models don't smile. She smiled like a tooth whitening commerical model. She made it look good, in other words.

Next Maren. Now for a little background information. Maren wants a motorcycle. Maren's favorite peice of clothing in the whole of the universe is a long-sleeved motorcycle tee that I bought her in the boys' section. She has a gallon wine jug (don't ask) that she is filling up with change so that she can buy one when she turns 18. She obsesses. She picks them out of magazines, comments on them passing in traffic. She is the queen of the two-wheeled motorized vehicle fan club.

She hops on the bike. Her face contorts into a rictus of pain and agony. Her eyes scrunch up, her cheeks bulge, her mouth stretches in obvious distress. Her head ducks down until her chin meets her chest. "Do I look boo-tiful?" she asks. And, of course, we all say yes.

D looks at me and I explain that every kid goes through a stage of 3-5 years where their idea of posing for a picture is roughly equivalent to a woodcarving of medival torture victims. "They grow out of it," I shrug. "Look at Brynna."

Today, I received her fall school pictures. I should thank my lucky stars, because the photographer somehow managed to make it look like she wasn't about to be drawn and quartered. Instead she just looks weird. And you know, I guess in a way, that's what makes these pictures so precious. The capture of my little penguin's complete and utter weirdness. And it's preservation forever. Mwhahahaha!

I'm sorta uncomfortable.

Yeah, this just isn't working for me.

*Okay, so this is a keeper*