The Morton Hams say "Cheese!"

The Morton children had dance pictures last night.  For those of you unfamiliar with suburban dance studio culture, dance pictures refers to the time of year when a bunch of tots run around in makeup and tutus, and some poor, ridiculously patient soul attempts to corral them into one fairly cohesive photograph where at least 80% of the tutu-clad crazy people are neither crying, nor picking their noses.  There is a schedule, but it is almost never accurate.  One in every five children goes missing for an extended period at some point during the process. Adorable, dressed-up chaos ensues.

I'm fairly certain that of the dozen or so shots taken of the Anarchist's class, the Anarchist was proudly picking her nose in at least eight of them.  Fantastic.  At least she didn't cry.  In fact, she very "helpfully" went around to the smaller--and sometimes larger--children, encouraging them not to weep, "assisting" them with their costumes, and reassuring their parents with, "Don't worry.  I've got it under control."  Oh lord.

For her part, the Dictator did an excellent job of masking the fact that she was coming down with a terrible fever (I promise we didn't know about it ahead of time...we're not germ-passers, I swear).  She would look hopelessly sluggish, peaked and miserable, and then instantly flash a winning smile at the click of the camera.  Despite the fact that she was drowning in her over-sized pile of velvet and tulle and the fact that feverish malaise is not the best look for her, I think we might just have pulled off a halfway decent picture.

The Bureaucrat was most helpful throughout the entire ordeal.  He served alternately as a tutu rack, fringe shelf, and arm pouf holder, cared for an ailing Dictator, corralled an Anarchist bent on anarchy, and kept all of the paperwork in check. A+ work, Bureaucrat.  A+ work.

I, on the other hand, managed to elicit glares from every person in the room when I chose to converse with the one mother who, despite repeated shushing, could not use her indoor voice in the picture room.  You know it's bad when middle school kids are glaring at you contemptuously for talking too much.  Guilt by association.  Fail.


In the face of these obstacles, however, the Mortons pulled through.  But after all, was there any doubt?  How could anything but success possibly occur in a room full of crying toddlers in mascara?