Babes on Film

My wife and I recently took newly born Apple Rosebud to a high-priced portrait photographer for the obligatory artsy baby pics. It was en edifying experience. Otto von Bismarck once remarked that people who love laws and sausages should make sure they never see either one being made.

Well, the same applies to baby portraits.

Prior to the shoot, Mrs. Chase and I inspected the walls of the photographer's studio waiting room. The photographer's specialty was baby portraiture, and it showed. The walls of her strip-mall office were adorned floor to ceiling with black-and-white pictures of babies in various states of repose. The scene was an orgy of adorability -- sleeping cherubs curled up beside teddy bears and long-stemmed flowers; impish infants and tow-headed toddlers with wide eyes and gentle smiles and the general vibe of cuteness.

The photos had the desired effect. Mrs. Chase and I were excited for the photographer to work her magic and capture Apple Rosebud in all her splendor.

And the photographer captured it, too, all right. Finally. She managed to eke out some great photos during an eight-minute span, a rare blip of time during which Apple Rosebud McInerney was not screaming, wailing, crying inconsolably, spitting up, grunting like a longshoreman and leaving ribbons of mustard-colored feces on tables draped in black cloth.

The shoot itself lasted for more than two hours. If you do the math, that means one hour and fifty-two minutes of screaming, wailing, crying inconsolably, spitting up, grunting like a longshoreman and leaving ribbons of mustard-colored feces on tables draped in black cloth.

Never again will I be lulled by the tranquil charms of a baby portrait. Behind each one, I now know, was a pure, unadulterated hell.