Why Do I Torture Myself

Yesterday, I took Big Brother to have his picture taken at the gigantic box store that I love to hate. All I wanted was a cheap portrait package to have enough pictures to hand out to everyone and their dog. I swore I would never put myself or my children through this again, but there I stood trying to be nice, half laughing at the photographer's dumb jokes. It took all of my might not to say any of the following:

I just want one, good, plain picture. No cheesy balloon background. No happy clouds.

I have thousands of pictures of him on my flash drive much cuter than the one you just snapped.

I really hate that you're wasting your time taking 18 photos of my kid when I'm just here for the $7.99 butt load o' photos package.

I couldn't care less if you can make a sepia border or write his name in burnt orange, especially not now that I can smell what Baby Jaws just created in his pants. Can you smell it too or are you too involved in your creative process of typing 'Happy Birthday' over my child's legs in the ugliest font I've ever seen?

I don't need a life-size poster of him to hang on my wall. I get his little life-size body in my face waking me up every morning.

If I had $367 extra to spend on a photo package, that $367 would not be spent on a photo package.

I truly admire your initiative in trying to sell me a cd of all these school picture quality photos for only $119.

No, I don't think I need your $99 picture frame for my photo when I can just walk back a few aisles and get what looks like the exact same one for around $12.

Can you tell my 4 year old birthday boy is getting restless? He just told you himself, "I want to leave!"

Please, stop with the funky borders.

Oh, for the love of Pete woman, can you not smell the poop?!