America's Next Top (Preschool) Model

The Christmas cards were made. The stamps were on the addressed envelopes. One thing was missing from our annual postal onslaught of Merry Christmases – missing one photo of darling son in Christmas attire.

We dress him up. We explain to him that we are going to go take a few photos of him for the Christmas cards. We promise hot chocolate WITH marshmallows if the photo session comes off without a hitch. No whining. No running around like a maniac. No complaining. Just a quick snap-snap and a few poses for our Christmas cards. He shakes on it. Hot chocolate. Marshmallows. No photo shoot dramatics. The three parties were in total agreement. We head off.

We are not the only parents who have remembered last minute Christmas pictures. The botanical garden is full of children wearing Christmas outfits and uncomfortable shoes. There are mothers and fathers carrying around cameras and light reflectors. I feel better about our photo tardiness. Then, we open his door and get him from his booster seat. And I realized that, unlike the other parents taking photos of children, we are not dealing with a three year old boy. We are dealing with a modeling primadonna.

It was not cold. Not too cold, anyway. I would venture that the temperature was hovering right at 50. He had on winter clothes. It was not cold. He stepped on to the sidewalk and immediately told us, his photographers, “This is too cold to do today.” No, it’s not too cold and it must be done today. It must be done right now, in fact. Just a few pictures, then hot chocolate and marshmallows. “I think it’s too cold.” No, it’s not and if we hurry we can get to the hot chocolate. I think seriously about telling him about what cold REALLY is but decide that comes way too close to those hardship stories my dad used to tell about walking miles to school in the snow, uphill both ways while avoiding the bears...

He follows his father for a few minutes. Chris gets a location and starts to get ready. My job, at this point, is not one of mother, but of “baby wrangler” as they call them in professional child modeling. I have to pose the boy and make him stay put, but keep him happy.

“Actually,” he says with all the embodiment of a supermodel “I don’t like this spot.” What? “I don’t want to stand here.” Do it anyway. Marshmallows on the line. “Are these large marshmallows or small ones?” Large. “Is the hot chocolate instant?” Huh? It’s whatever we have at home. The camera makes clicking noises. He smiles for the photos. Then he frowns. “How many marshmallows do I get? It is actually cold out here.” It depends on how good you are and it’s not cold out here. Really.

Location number two. “What is for dinner?” Chicken. “I don’t want chicken before hot chocolate. I want chocolate and marshmallows before chicken.” More clicking noises on the camera. He begins to jump up and down. We tell him to stop. “It’s freezing out here.” Other parents are looking at us now. Their children sit and smile. Their children cooperate. Ours is negotiating the terms of his contract. Which he has, as I point out, breeched with the photo shoot dramatics and there may not be any marshmallows. Ever. He comes close to telling me he never signed anything and his lawyer never approved the contract. I start to have visions of the three of us on one of those magazines “Child Christmas Card Model Divorces Parents for Breech of Contract”… We hurry through the photo taking. We change locations, renegotiate the contract, I have to keep him covered with a blanket between shots. He tells us he doesn’t like chicken, cold weather, or Christmas cards. And the blanket isn't warm enough. He tells me he will probably get the flu and need a physician. I tell Chris it’s just not worth it. I never want to have his picture taken again. This is unreasonable. The boy is unreasonable. He's demanding.

We view the proofs at home. Out of 200 we have 5 that are decent and show a happy, joyful boy - not a mini supermodel being dramatic. He crawls on my lap and we come to the picture of the two of us. He had refused any more pictures unless I was in the picture with him. There we are, both of us forcing smiles between arguing the terms of the pictures and the marshmallowed chocolate.. “Mom, this one of us is my favorite. You look very pretty. You should have a marshmallow too.”

How does he always know just what to say?