Sunbeams captured, used to weaken parents

How is it that school portraits make you feel like it's the first time you've ever seen your child? I picked the pictures up at school on my way to work. They had such a profound effect on me that I had to call in late, and I was calling from the work parking lot. I sat in the car, on cold and rainy October day, and stared at Quin and Otto, brothers, sitting together for their picture. I was amazed that I knew them. They're so young and carefree and cool.

I knew that if the pictures were that devastating to me, I could not call Sarah at work and let her know I had them. For one thing it just seems wrong that I got to see them first. There should be a house rule: Anyone who passes anything through their vagina gets dibs on that thing's most sentimental moments. I felt like I was stealing something precious from her: a first glance at God or something. And secondly, she'd carjack somebody to see them. 

When I did show her, I was not apprised of the fact that I was supposed to prepare her. She walked in from work and I said "here" like I was Mel handing Alice an order of cheesecake. She was punched to a stop. At first she put her fist to her lips like either she was going to yell at me or regurgitate rainbows. Then she turned as sweet and soppy as rainy Jell-O and told me what I'm telling all of you: prepare her.

She didn't so much need consoled as to be suspended somewhere in space in silence so she could comprehend what she was looking at. It's just weird. They're the same creatures whose bums we wipe and noses we blow, but here they are.  Sunshine in a jar.

OK, now I get it. They can't yell at you on paper. Maybe. No. Too easy. They're remarkable.  One more time.