My kids have a modelling job, and it’s killing me.
In case you’re wondering how exactly a kid gets a job modelling, here’s a brief timeline:
*My kids say, “Hey, did you know that (insert name of any of their friends, because they all seem to model) gets paid a lot of money just for wearing different clothes? If I did that, I could buy the really big Lego sets.”
*I nod and ignore, per the ushe.
*The boy repeats said statement at the exact moment someone posts on my town’s local Facebook page that some company is looking for a boy model, age 6-9.
*I say, “Oh yeah? You want me to send your photo in?” He says yes.
*I find some random pictures, taken by me, with my phone. I don’t even click the little “‘retouch” thing. Or crop his sister out. I just send them.
*A week later, I get a call that he’s been chosen.
*A month later, I get another call, asking if I own the cute little girl who wasn’t cropped out of the photos I sent in. Yes, I do. Great, they’ll take her too.
That’s all it took.
Well, kind of.
Originally, the photo shoot was taking place over two days. Day 1 then got canceled because a tropical storm. The reschedule got canceled because of a hurricane. They rescheduled again while we were in Thailand. No big deal. Salary drops by half; they’ll do one day instead of two. It’s still plenty of money for a Lego set. Day 2 gets rescheduled because of monsoons. And again. And again.
It’s done nothing but rain all fucking summer.
Okay, so now Day 2 is fixed, with a backup day scheduled in the event of rain. To clear these two days that kept changing, I had to change my kid’s drama camp three times. Three. That’s more drama than a whole year of drama camp.
We haven’t even talked about clothes yet.
At first, the agent was all, “Weigh them, measure them, send the details my way.” Nice. I do this. She comes back with, “Okay, we’ve got a wardrobe of 10-12 outfits for both of them. Please photograph and send 4 outfits for each of them for backup.”
The outfits cannot have loud designs on them. Nor can they have popsicle stains. Nor can they be the booty shorts my daughter wears exclusively. They can’t have Darth Vader on them. Or ghasts. I’m fucked. My kids dress like hobos. They learned it from their mother.
Thankfully, this modelling shit is coinciding nicely with everyone’s end-of-season sales, so I was able to pick up a few solid-colored t-shirts for, like, free. I even got some for myself, so I can model more-than-hobo. Done.
Then the agent texts, “Make sure they wear their white shoes.”
Let me tell you what we wear every day. Flip flops. That’s it. That’s dressing up around here.
I was thinking, “This woman is smoking crack. Who the hell wears white tennis shoes?” Then I remembered that in Hong Kong, all kids are expected to have one dark pair of shoes and one white pair of tennies for school. Oh, right. Lots of days, my kids never wear any shoes. Having to wear shoes (and pants) basically pushed us into homeschooling.
I refuse to budge on this one. I hate buying shoes for my kids. They hate it. I’m not doing it. I’m sorry, I say. We don’t own white shoes and we’re not buying them. Fine, she says. She’ll do it.
The modelling is supposed to happen in two weeks’ time. It’s done nothing but rain for the past two weeks. I am flying out of the country the week after. If it doesn’t happen the day it’s supposed to, it’s not going to.
All of that is enough stress, but you want to know what’s super ridiculous? My daughter HATES having her picture taken. She promised me, before she accepted the job, that she’d smile and be polite. That she understood that having her picture taken was not just a part of the job, that it IS the job. But six is a fickle age. I have no faith.