A Christmas Portrait

I was seven months old; it was my first Christmas. My mother had already filled three albums with pictures of me from the day I was born, but she wanted something professional for first baby’s first Christmas. She dressed me in a blue velvet dress with a white, lacey collar in the front. The edges were similarly trimmed with a white lace, and the sleeves had princess-style puffs. I had on black, shiny Mary Jane shoes with a brass buckle and starch white socks folded down so the lace brushed the tops of the shoes. She’d bought the dress specifically for the occasion; she thought the blue would bring out my huge baby eyes.

Once in the studio, a young photographer sat me on a cloth-covered table and flipped through a variety of backgrounds until he found the one with the Christmas tree surrounded by presents. Reaching for the studio light, he adjusted the angle until I was bathed in a soft glow. As he stood behind the camera, focusing on my fuzzy red hair and double chin, he began a funny song and dance routine with puppets in an attempt to make me smile. He knew mothers will pay more for happy babies. What he failed to realize that being choked with white, itchy lace is enough to make even the most agreeable of people a little edgy.

He had a box of toys he used as props, and selected a grubby, white dog with a misshapen nose, which he began to dance around in a way that is supposed to make babies giggle. My eyes narrowed as I followed that dancing dog with my eyes.

I wanted it.

I began the negotiations by thrusting my hand in his direction, my pudgy, outstretched fingers signaling that I was interesting in the product he was offering. He knew he had my attention, so began to add a sing-song chant to the dog’s dance, encoded to entice me to smile for the happy dog who liked happy, smiling girls. Won’t you smile for the happy, smiling dog?

Negotiations were obviously turning sour, so I implemented my next tactical advantage. My chin began to quiver. Half a second later, the dog still was not in my hand, so I threw all my cards on the table. I squinted my eyes and scrunched up my face as I turned my lungs up to full throttle. I screamed and cried to the fullest extent of my power, which, I am told, was quite impressive for someone not even two feet tall.

His eyes widened in terror as they darted between me, the dog, and my mother. His eyebrows furrowed as he brought out more and more toys from his box. Soon the dancing dog was joined by his friends Teddy Bear and Calico Cat. I, however, had my eye on the prize, and continued to wail, flexing my hand open and closed in the direction of the dog.

Finally getting the message, he took a few timid steps in my direction, the dog as a peace offering between us. I grabbed its ear and pulled it onto my lap, its nose buried in the folds of my dress. Eager to return to the safety offered behind the camera lens, he hastily snapped the picture.

Flipping through first few pages of my fourth album of baby photos, you’ll find a 3X5 Christmas print from labeled “Rachel’s First Christmas”. The picture shows a small, red-headed baby with a white, stuffed dog firmly clutched in her tiny, chubby fist, her lip curled upward in an ugly sneer.