Picture this

Today is picture day at Mark's school. That, combined with the wet, rainy weather, has me a little worried.

Mark, of course, is thrilled. For him, it's a free dress day, which meant he immediately picked out his rattiest t-shirt and shorts to wear to school. I explained that yes, technically it is a uniform-free day, but the whole point is to wear nice clothes for the photos. That took the shine off of free dress day.

I actually thought picture day was on Wednesday, and I was planning to take him shopping tonight. So I panicked a bit about his wardrobe, which consists entirely of school uniforms, faded t-shirts and bloody skull-and-snake shirts, none of which I deemed appropriate to wear to school, let alone capture on film forever.

Instead, I braved his messy closet. He has some nice dress shirts I bought for our Alaskan cruise, but I knew there was no chance in hell he would wear a dress shirt and tie to school. (Might as well tell him to wear a "Please Beat Me Up" sign instead.)

But I found the next best thing -- a semi-dressy blue shirt. It had a Tony Hawk label, so I knew I could sell him halfway on that alone, but I needed some big guns to really clinch the deal.

"You can wear your blue Tony Hawk shirt," I said casually, and he disappeared without an answer. He reappeared moments later carrying a faded striped shirt that's seen better days.

"I'll wear this Tony Hawk shirt!" he said, happily.

I pointed out it was faded, which didn't bother him, and that he'd already been photographed in it before, which he hadn't (I'm not above lying to get a good school picture!). Finally, I just shrugged and said, "Well, it's pretty wrinkled," and he tossed in in the closet, disgusted. That kid hates wrinkles!

I let him toss out a few more suggestions before I returned to the blue shirt. He nixed it, and suggested some different t-shirts. I played along, negotiating back and forth, until I sensed the time was right to show all my cards.

"Tell ya what," I said slowly. "That blue shirt would look really good with your skinny jeans. If you wear the shirt, you can also wear the skinny jeans."

And we had a deal! Mark smiled, because he got to wear his beloved skinny jeans, and I smiled because I'd convinced him to wear the only nice shirt he has. I considered it a win on both sides.

Of course, there's no guarantee that his nice clothes will stay nice until his photo session. He regularly uses his shirt as a napkin at lunch. And there was just enough rain last night to mess up the playground, and potentially Mark's shirt (he comes home filthy every day). So I'm praying he'll be photographed before recess and lunch, before he has a chance to dirty himself up.

I also agreed he could pack an extra t-shirt -- I didn't want him to ruin his blue shirt wearing it all day at school. However, that was a gamble, because there's a 50-50 chance he'll wear it for his photo instead of the blue shirt.

Lots to worry about until I get those photos into my hands...

DON'T save the drama for your mama!

Wow, anyone who says boys are less dramatic than girls obviously doesn't have a clothes-obsessed 9-year-old boy.

Today was free dress day at school, a reward for completing last month's home reading club assignment. Mark was excited, but even more thrilled after last week's shopping excursion, when I rewarded him with a new pair of pants for doing so great on his report card.

Not just any old pants, mind you. Black super skinny jeans. He's been begging for them for six months now. We're talking Jonas Brother skinny here. Skinny jeans on a skinny kid -- kinda looks like he's wearing tights!

He loved the pants so much he wore them on Saturday AND Sunday, along with his new black Skatedogs t-shirt. And reminded me all week that he was going to wear them again on free dress day. He was so excited he even washed his clothes to ensure they were clean.

To which I said -- right on! Anything that makes him volunteer for laundering duties has my seal of approval.

So he loaded up the washing machine with black clothes, then went to bed. I transferred the clothes to the dryer, and imagine my surprise when a black Converse high top with flames fell out and landed on my toe.

I chalked it up to sloppiness -- I figured Mark scooped it up accidentally when he grabbed his clothes. But then -- literally -- the other shoe dropped, and I saw that the little rugrat had washed both shoes. On purpose!

No big deal. I set them aside to air dry, and turned on the dryer.

Well, this morning, the first thing Mark said to me was, "Did you dry my clothes?"

"Yes," I answered.

He giggled a little. "Did you see my shoes?" he asked, quite pleased with himself.

"Yes," I answered again.

He ran out to the garage to retrieve his clothes. I heard the door slam, and then an angry little voice shouted, "My shoes are still wet!!!"

He stood in the doorway, glaring, demanding an explanation. Mind you, I hadn't even gotten out of bed yet -- and a top o' the morning to you, too!

"Well, yeah, that's what happens you wash them," I said.

He immediately burst into tears. Now this I was not expecting!

"I didn't know they'd get wet!" he wailed. "I wanted to wear those shoes with my skinny jeeeeeeeeeaaaaans!" I realized this was God's punishment for all the years I killed my own mother's dreams of having a little girly-girl with neat hair and fancy dresses.

"Oh lord," I mumbled. Just then my alarm went off, with two radio announcers discussing Friday the 13th. So at least there was a rational explanation for the sudden outburst.

I went to the office to console Mark, who was curled in a fetal position on the bed. He was still crying. I tried to be as understanding as I possibly could before my morning coffee.

"Fine," I said. "If you go get ready, I will put your shoes in the dryer. If you complain AT ALL, I will not." (That's about as comforting as I get first thing in the morning!)

He complied, and 20 minutes later, he was lacing up his high-tops. "They're still kinda wet, but I don't care!" he told me happily.

As we walked out the front door, Mark stopped abruptly, saying "Oh, I forgot my black sweatshirt!"

I looked down at him, in his black shirt, black jeans and black shoes. The only spot of color were the flames on his shoes.

"Come on, Mark, you're not Johnny Cash," I said. "Off to school with you!"

"Who's Johnny Cash?" he asked.

"The Man in Black," I said. "Now, go..."

I could see his eyes grow wide, and I realized I should have shut up. I could see requests for Johnny Cash records downloaded from iTunes in my near future.

Oh well, could be worse. With his penchant for all-black clothing, I should just be glad it's not Goth music he's into. Or Marilyn Manson...