Yesterday was picture day at daycare. I'd been talking it up to Helena for a few days, particularly the point that I'd set aside a specific outfit for the event, mostly so she wouldn't freak out over not having her usual choice between two outfits in the morning. On this point I needn't've worried. She loves her skirt, and no matter that the pantyhose look distressingly uncomfortable, she delights in pulling them on by herself. (Perhaps it's the novelty of them. Or maybe they have the technology, they really are more comfortable than in my day.) She flits about, twirling, shouting "look at my skirt!" repeatedly, to me, Papa, the cat. And freshly coiffed too. Picture perfect.
Eight hours later, J-F carries Helena kicking and screaming into the house. She's been like this all day, he tells me. Cranky. When picture time came, she wouldn't sit still. She cried and ran and hid. I have mixed feelings about not having a photo to commemorate the experience.
We put the turmoils of our respective days behind us with a cup of hot chocolate. Helena's skirt and hose sagging, toddler belly protruding from under a now-splattered shirt. This is the only photo captured.