Every fall, tucked in between practices and math homework, comes a day mothers everywhere simultaneously dread and secretly cherish: School Picture Day.
The reminder slips into backpacks, and just like that, it’s not just about standing in front of a camera—it’s a full-on theatrical event starring tweens, complete with drama, costume changes, sibling rivalries, and more pep talks than a football coach in overtime.
If you’ve got 12-year-olds (almost 13, which they will remind you at every possible opportunity), you know exactly what I mean.
Tween Girls and The Outfit Crisis
Here’s how it goes down in my house: the girls treat Picture Day as though Vogue is sending a photographer, and their yearbook photo will set the course of their entire social destiny.
Outfits are not simply “picked.” Oh no. They are auditioned. Rehearsed. Stared at in the mirror with narrowed eyes.
“Does this make me look weird?” one daughter asks, turning dramatically like she’s walking a Paris runway.
“I’m not wearing that,” declares the other, tossing a shirt back into the closet like it personally insulted her.
Suddenly, the bedroom floor looks like a fashion bomb went off—leggings, cardigans, headbands, shoes that somehow all “don’t go.” There are accusations: “You copied me!” There are ultimatums: “If she wears that, I’m not wearing this.”
And me? I’m sitting in the kitchen with my coffee, trying to channel both therapist and hostage negotiator.
“Girls,” I say gently, “you are both beautiful. It doesn’t matter if you both wear a cardigan. You will not look like twins in the yearbook.”
Cue the sighs, the hair flips, the stomping to the bathroom for one last look.
Meanwhile, Jase
Then there’s my son.
Jase strolls into the room, hair sticking up, wearing a hoodie he probably found crumpled on the floor. He shrugs when I raise an eyebrow.
“This is fine.”
“It’s not fine,” I say, tugging at the wrinkled hem. “It’s Picture Day.”
“I don’t care,” he says flatly, tugging the hoodie back out of my hands.
And here’s the thing—he means it. He really doesn’t care.
I launch into my pep talk: “Dude, these photos will be around forever. Nana and Papa will hang them up. Your sisters are having meltdowns over outfit choices. Can you at least put on a clean shirt?”
He stares at me like I’ve asked him to climb Mount Everest. Finally, he sighs, mutters something about being tortured, and swaps the hoodie for a polo. A polo. Victory.
The Bathroom Is the War Zone
Once clothes are decided (loosely, in Jase’s case), we move to phase two: hair.
The girls hover over the bathroom mirror with a seriousness usually reserved for surgeons. One wants her hair curled, the other straight. There are sprays, brushes, heat tools, headbands. There are tears.
“This side won’t stay down!”
“Now I look like a mushroom!”
“Why is my hair so… flat?!”
Meanwhile, Jase runs a wet hand through his hair, glances in the mirror, and says, “Done.”
I breathe. I remind myself that one day I’ll miss this. (That’s what everyone keeps telling me, anyway.)
The Mom Pep Talk
Here’s the thing: underneath all the chaos, my job isn’t just to keep everyone’s collars straight and hair somewhat tamed. My real role is pep talker-in-chief.
I pull the girls aside, one at a time. “Listen. It doesn’t matter if your eyeliner isn’t perfect. It doesn’t matter if your sister picked the same color. You are radiant, and your smile is the thing people will notice most. Just breathe, stand tall, and own it.”
And to Jase, as he rolls his eyes and insists he doesn’t need advice: “Hey. I know you don’t care about this picture, but I promise one day you’ll look back and be glad you wore the polo. Just give me one smile—your real one, not the one where you look like you’re in pain. Got it?”
He grunts, which I’m taking as agreement.
The Walk Out the Door
Finally, after what feels like hours of outfit swapping, hair smoothing, and affirmations, we’re ready.
The girls are still bickering about who looks better. Jase is already halfway down the driveway, muttering about how ridiculous this all is. And me? I’m calling after them with my final Olympic-level pep talk:
“Remember, shoulders back! Chin up! Smile like you mean it!”
They wave me off with the universal tween gesture: a combination of eye roll, head shake, and muffled “Moooom.”
When the Photos Come Back
Weeks later, the envelopes arrive, tucked into backpacks. I open them with the same suspense as a season finale cliffhanger.
The girls? One is glowing, the other is clearly mid-blink but insists she looks “fine.” Jase? Shockingly, miraculously, he’s smiling—a real one.
And just like that, the chaos of Picture Day fades into something sweet. Because whether they’re dramatic, indifferent, or somewhere in between, these are the faces I love most.
Why the Pep Talk Matters
Picture Day isn’t about the perfect photo. It’s about teaching my kids that showing up as themselves is always enough.
For the girls, that means reminding them their worth isn’t tied to the perfect outfit. For Jase, it means showing him that even if he doesn’t care, his presence still matters.
And for me, it’s learning that behind all the drama, behind all the sighs and eye rolls, is something precious: my almost-teenagers, on the cusp of growing up, still letting me be the voice that whispers, “You’ve got this.”
The Real Picture
So here’s to Picture Day moms. To the outfit meltdowns and the kids who “don’t care.” To the eye rolls, the pep talks, and the memories we’ll laugh about later.
Because at the end of the day, the photos are just snapshots. But the pep talks? Those are the real legacy.
Fry, Party of Five 