Taking you children for photographs is one of the time-honored traditions started by the Spanish Inquisition and continued by several South American regimes to this day. It is a way to force parents to part with money and scare the living daylights out of children.

First, let’s look at it from the perspective of the baby, who has never experienced this before.

We dress her in a cute little outfit that makes it look like she’s going to the hot-dog roast down on the beach with Doogie and the Moon Man, after they shoot the curl of course. In essence, she looks like a gnarly Gidget and we’re excited to see how beautiful she looks on film. Truth be told, we know she’s the most beautiful baby in the world; we just need confirmation from the unwashed masses.

She gets to ride in the car. Again, cool. (In the back seat her sister was singing, “Oh Yoshimi, they don’t believe me/But you won’t let those robots defeat me, Yoshimi.”)

We arrive at the mall early, so we stop off at the Disney Store to see if our friend Mike was working. He was not. However, the kids were dazzled by the synergistic marketing of the company and desperately wanted everything. In the short ten minutes we were there, no less than eighty Disney employees asking if we’re finding what we’re looking for accosted us. “Yes, I’m looking for Disney stuff. Do you have any?”

We head off to the photographer and fill out paper work promising that we’ll allow the photographer and her assistant full rights to suck our children’s souls out through a camera.

This is when it got scary for the baby. First, her sister climbs up on top of a giant platform and lies down. Then we place her next to her sister. On a PLATFORM. And we walk away! What the hell? What are you people doing.

Now starts the ritual of making the baby smile. Our daughter is a smart kid. But it doesn’t take much to make her smile. Talk to her and give her a big smile, and she’ll reciprocate. This subtlety is lost on the photographer who proceeds to wave crap in front of the baby’s face screaming bizarre comments in a horribly screechy voice.

The baby looks at her mom as if to say, “Is this woman okay? I think she may be having a seizure.”

Needless to say, the baby only smirked. But only out of pity for the photographer. She felt sorry for her. Most people in her mental condition aren’t allowed out in public. Her time was short in this job, and Gertrude knew it.

We moved on to big sister. Matilda was dressed in a cute skirt and a Spanish looking blouse that inspired jealousy from every woman around. She looked beautiful. And she knew it. We gave her a Gidget hairdo and she had been wearing sunglasses. She looked like a star and she knew it. And, damn it, she demanded the respect that her status deserved.

Not that it mattered to the photographer who was trapped in her Tourette’s inspired mania. She sputtered and muttered and tried to get Matilda to smile. She smiled, but out of fear of upsetting this unbalanced woman.

“Keep that smile!” she’d yell at the poor child. So she did. Even while the photographer was switching backgrounds. A terrified smile was plastered on her face. She knew that if she stopped smiling this woman might snap.

“You can stop smiling between pictures.” Good. She stopped smiling.

“Keep that smile!” What did this woman want?

Finally it was all over and the children were relieved to get out of there. So was our wallet, which was considerably lighter.

So, we stopped off for a cinnamon and sugar pretzel and looked at puppies.

All in all it was a good day. But I fear that photographer is still out there, waving a stuffed red dog in people’s faces screaming, “KEEP THAT SMILE!”

She’ll eventually be picked up and put in the pokey where she’ll be demoralized by the other prisoners who lock her in a closet and tell her to shut the hell up.