Reason Number 1: Senior Pictures

The first reason for not crying during your oldest child’s senior year is utterly trite and embarrassing:  senior pictures. 

Grace had her senior pictures taken several weeks ago as summer was drawing to an end.  Though I have seen it coming and have been (for me) decidedly matter of fact about the whole “my baby’s last year of high school is upon us”, it was perhaps no surprise that I found the whole thing to be a bit surreal.  I mean it is almost comical.  This gorgeous, nearly 6 foot tall super model is my plump, strawberry blond baby girl with the huge, cautious eyes and the adventurous heart?  In spite of every teenager’s deep desire to never stick out or be different in any way, our family just can’t ever quite do things normally.  Grace’s senior picture experience involved a rock throwing little brother, potential wild parsnip exposure, and a giant inflatable flamingo. Because, why wouldn’t it?  It was our usual mix of poignant and absurd—a perfect illustration of our weird and wonderful life.  And the photos turned out magnificent.  

Back in 1993 when we got our senior photos taken, it was, like everything these days, much less of a customized experience.  I think a few people maybe had photos taken with pets or featuring their sports or hobbies, but for the most part we all called the same photographer and went to the same location and had the same props (a barn and a wagon wheel I recall featuring prominently which... why?) for every shot.  I wore acid washed jeans and did my own hair and make up.  Two of my four outfits were hand me downs from either an aunt or an old babysitter (I can’t remember which).  I think the process took maybe 2 hours?  I don’t really recall, and I assume my mom has the portfolio we brought home buried among some photo albums somewhere.  She has each of our senior portraits hanging in the basement of her house, and every now and then I will pause and look at them.  I am always struck by how young we look—and how, regardless of gender or outfit, there is such a glint of optimism and hope in each of our eyes.  I saw the same in Grace.  Not crying.

We invited my old friend Gena whose work I have quietly admired on social media for several years to come to the lake take the photos, and it’s a method I highly recommend.  We figured out that it has been 23 years since we last saw each other which is weird since we are both just going on 30 and we met in college, but regardless.  We sat on my deck sipping sparkling water and filling one another in on 23 years of living—careers and travel and babies and weddings.  She laughed uproariously when I told her how I currently make my living, confirming what I’ve always suspected—those who knew me at 19 and lost touch could never in a million years have predicted my current career.  It made me wonder a bit what the future holds for my Gracie girl.  Will she land someplace wholly unpredictable from where we sit today?  Not crying.

Regardless, as evening fell, the focus of the visit shifted from reminiscing the past to photographing the future.  When Grace came down the stairs, her hair straightened and glowing, her eyes shining, we all did a collective double take.   “Grace!” I exclaimed.  “Your makeup looks fantastic!  Did you do that yourself?”  

“It’s just mascara,” she said.  Summer sun glow doesn’t hurt, of course, but sheesh.  She added lip smackers chapstick and a little face powder and nothing else.  Ah, youth.  She was—is—so heartbreakingly beautiful.  Not crying.

Because our life is what it is, Chad’s truck wouldn’t start so our original plan of heading out in my now blocked in mini-van for picturesque sites on and around the lake was briefly thwarted.  Instead, we started out near some pretty flowering bushes in front of our own cabin.  The previous night’s campfire still smoldered quietly nearby, and the wispy smoke filtering through the sunset light initially created quite a dreamy ambience, though my attempt to slide the fire pit to a more appropriate spot ended up increasing the smoke to a point where we had to shift locations.  (I learned through this that I most definitely did not miss a calling as a photographer’s assistant).  We opted not to purchase the shot we titled “pretty girl coughing in narrowly avoided death by house fire”.

In our second location, We decided to take some photos with our little Penny pup.  When we at first struggled to keep her attention, we sent Lucy inside for treats.  She came back out with a slab of rare roast beef fresh off the smoker and roughly the size of a car door.   She stood behind Gena waving it gently and even I could smell it’s smoky meatiness.  For a dog who doesn’t weigh 10 pounds soaking wet, a slab of meat that size was a brilliant way to maintain her attention.  Penny was a dream prop after that, and my friend added a new trick for photographing animals to her repertoire.  

 

During this first session, Chad successfully jumpstarted his truck so we packed extra outfits and hairspray and bug spray and a variety of photography paraphernalia into my mini-van.  Because we are who we are as a family, the two youngest kids jumped in as well.  It was, despite the momentous photo shoot in process, a lake weekend, so both children were only wearing swimsuits and crocs, though Lucy hastily added a cover up before clambering in.  Clay wore his usual summer uniform—swim trunks he wears 100% of the time at the lake (to sleep in, to church).

The beach session took awhile and the kids’ attention wandered a bit.  Luckily, the beach is designed for children’s entertainment (unlike the waterfall and the babbling brook which were a bit more harrowing), so their explorations and antics were more or less uneventful.  At one point, disturbances in the water made me realize that Clay was hurling rocks near (at?) the lovely subject which I hastily put a stop to.

 I was also enlisted to take a few more photographs of my youngest offspring. Not for the first time, I wondered how moms with fewer kids handle moments like these.  I couldn’t stare into the beautiful sunset ruminating on the fact that these photos represent the beginning of the end of my day to day life with this spectacular child, because I was actively trying to keep the youngest two from breaking their necks (or at least getting good photos on their way down—at their request).  

After the beach we headed back to our cabin for the wildflower meadow shots.  These were the ones I immediately knew I would love best.  The sun had just sunk below the level of the treetops and the light had reached what Gena called “the magic hour”.  Grace was just radiant.  Since we were right across from our cabin and the littles were deathly afraid that the flowers were actually the viciously poisonous wild parsnip, they refused to follow us into the meadow.  Grace had a moment of pause herself (our few exposures over the last several summers have left us all a bit terrified).  I was reasonably certain the flowers were clover and Queen Anne’s lace, so I assured her confidently.  “And anyway,” I further asserted, “Even if it is poisonous we should still be able to get a few good shots before the swelling sets in.”  (My assumption was correct—it was just harmless wildflowers).

Then we began, and I was no longer distracted by my other offspring (who were attempting to climb a giant hay bale wearing water skiing gloves at the edge of the meadow, as one does at all normal senior photo shoots).  

The full levity of the situation descended on me. There isn’t much left to be said on the subject—moms have been posting senior photos to Facebook for many weeks (years) now.  She is my baby.  My first.  The child I have poured so much of my life and love and, quite literally, blood, sweat and tears into and over for the last 17 years.  My whole heart.  My whole life.  “Can you...” I tried to say, as they started making the motions of wrapping up.  My voice was breaking and Grace had caught it and was looking quite alarmed.  I plowed forward.  “Can you take a few over her shoulder—sort of looking down.  It’s the angle I know—love—best.  Like when I was holding her and... it’s not usually photographed and...” I sort of trailed off, really not able to speak for the tears I wasn’t crying.  In spite of my struggle, Gena grasped my intent.   

What I was trying to say was this:

This is the angle that undoes me.  This is the “can we watch Nemo one more time, mommy, pweeeease??” Angle.  The campfire angle.  The lullaby angle.  The bedtime story angle (“blow a kiss, and let it go.  You never know how love will grow”—Grace’s favorite).  The braiding hair for school angle. The “I don’t understand this question on my homework” angle.   I will see this beautiful, smiling, serious, wonderful face straight on and in a dozen other angles 10 million more times in my life going forward, God willing.  But the sleepy baby girl angle, the tired toddler angle, the uncertain school girl angle, that particular angle of her precious nose and impossible eyelashes and curving cheeks is probably over forever.  This angle is burned forever into my heart from the hours she spent curled up in my arms.  The mommy magic—where all was right with the world for both of us just because she was in my arms—has necessarily faded quietly year after year, as it should.  But I can see it all so vividly and feel it in my arms and my breasts and my heart and my gut so viscerally from this angle that I, obviously, did not weep (or narrowly avoid ugly sobs).    Gena and Grace dutifully took the photos and pretended not to notice.   

   

We had one final shot to get, and it was one significantly less likely to invoke tears.  We headed down to the lake where Chad had spent the hour I was sobbing in a wildflower meadow borrowing a larger than life inflatable pink flamingo from our across the lake neighbors.  Though the light was almost gone, our up-for-anything photographer and her willing subject dutifully began the liveliest, most absurd segment of senior photos in all the class of 2020.  See below for a brief video of the process.  It was only later that I remembered that Grace actually used to have quite the affinity for flamingos.  She spent several years of her life insisting on only wearing pink, and during these years flamingoes were unquestionably her absolute favorite animal on the planet.  (I miss the years when we had regular conversations—indeed debates— about important matters such as our favorite animal and why.  Her other favorite was of course giraffes—because they start with a G.  Not crying).

We concluded the session with some very moody, artsy shots of Grace in the water.  Then we retired to the cabin for wine and the very smoked beef that had held Penny’s attention hours (days?) earlier.  Gena left shortly after, and my 6 Luekens settled in for the night.  Grace played music selections from Chad and I’s senior years and I insisted that they play “Gracie Girl” by Ben Folds and “Slipping Through My Fingers” by ABBA because I couldn’t quite resist the opportunity to lean into my nostalgia and not cry one more time.  We ended the night with a family dance party (“Pump up the Jam” has become an undisputed favorite).

The school year is already racing by, and I continue to walk the fine line between the impossibly tender and the absurd.  Our days are full of nonsense and magic—inflatable larger than life flamingos and precious wildflowers, campfires and dead batteries, sunsets and rock throwing little brothers.  It’s just life—everyone’s life is silly and sentimental and ridiculous and wonderful.  It’s not a reason to cry.  You don’t need to cry because a big part of your heart will walk out the door with that girl next year at this time.  We didn’t get wild parsnip poisoning, we didn’t start the cabin on fire, no one broke anything jumping off of lifeguard chairs, and nobody cried.  All in all, senior pictures were a brilliant success.  I’m not crying.  You’re crying.