You just never know what will get some people good and fired up. My snow day column, of all things, has gotten me a few critical comments now, and one of them definitely has a point. A reader took me to task for making a generalization about how snow days can often throw off a working mom’s schedule, but, as he pointed out, in his office there are two men who are first in line for “snow day” duty.

So, I generalized, and for that I apologize. Of course, I should have said working parent.

At first I was feeling really guilty, thnking I was a hypocrite for poking fun at my disgruntled e-mailer the other day when it turned out I’d done the same thing (made a sexist assumption). But here’s the difference, as I see it: “Ben” was making an assumption about my specific home life based on, well, based on nothing, since if he’d read a few more of my columns he would know I was a working mom. I was generalizing about a group of people based on my experiences–still not okay, necessarily, but in any generalization there is some–sometimes much–truth. And the truth is, in the vast majority of families I know, the mother is the one who takes on the most responsibility for snow days and sick days–regardless of whether she’s working or not.

Even in our household, where we have a pretty even partnership, it’s generally assumed that I’m the one who will make it work if one of the kids has to stay home. Now, part of that is because I work mostly from home, which you can technically do with kids in the house. Technically–but it doesn’t always work out that way, especially if a child is sick and needy. But if I have a big deadline on the day that school’s cancelled or snot is flowing, I would have to ask my husband to take the day off, and though he’d probably do it, there would be some grumbling and gnashing of teeth first.

What about you? In your family, who is the automatic stay-home-on-sick-and-snow-days parent? Do you take turns? Work it out depending on who’s got more going on that day? Or does one parent or the other stay home most of the time? If that’s the case, did you set it up that way by design…or default? If you’re an at-home parent, then what about the dual-working couples you know?

Every now and then I get non-fan mail, whether it’s from somebody who disagrees with my opinion, dislikes my writing style, or just seems to despise me in general. Usually I just shrug and move on, but today I got a nasty-gram with a big glaring assumption in it that made my eyes roll back so far in my head I nearly saw my own brains. Here’s the e-mail, in a reaction to my latest column about snow days, which was meant to be humorous but apparently didn’t come across that way to all readers.

“Ben” of the Lansing, MI area says (emphasis mine, just to point out glaring sexist assumption):

Meagan,

I just read your article in the LSJ about how snow days are stressful for you. I would like to make a suggestion. Perhaps it would be more beneficial for the readers to read about ways to keep kids entertained and satiated rather than whining about how stressful it is to keep them occupied. What really gets me is when you mentioned that you were going to request that your spouse stay home with the kids on the next snow day. Your spouse… who works full time so that you can stay home with the kids. Come on. Get with the program. We (the readers) need to have intelligent, productive materials in our media. Not a play-by-play of unruly children.

Um. Not quite. I couldn’t help but respond:

Hi Ben,

Actually, I am a work at home mom, and juggle my family responsibilities while also earning the other half of our family’s income. Like any other parent, my life is a balance of fun and stress, and I try to reflect that reality in my column, which varies widely in topic from week to week. I can appreciate if the column isn’t your cup of tea, but must correct your assumption about my work life. If you have never yet, please try taking four kids to your place of work sometime and see how you feel by the end of the day. My guess is you might do a bit of whining yourself.

Of course, it really doesn’t matter whether I’m an at-home mom, a working outside the home mom, or a mix of the two: the fact is, parenting is stressful, and straying from the usual routine (like on a snow day) can add another layer of stress. But I love how he just had to stand up for my tortured, overworked husband there. I’m such an ingrate! I think I’ll forward his e-mail to my husband just so he knows somebody’s on his side, poor guy.

Ben, and all the Bens of the world, I’m going to use your own words: Come on, man. Get with the program.

From my column this week:

I was reading the Washington Post the other week and ran across a story called “Bringing Up Babies, Defying The Norm,” reporting that 28 is now considered “young” for starting a family.

But to my surprise, I’m still outside the norm. Most of the women I meet who are my age still don’t have children or they have just had their first baby. They look wide-eyed at me and swear that there’s no way they could have handled having children in their 20s.I always tell them that they might have been surprised.

Did you start your family on the younger or older side? What were the drawbacks and advantages to starting a family at that age?

My extended family-parents, siblings, their spouses and kids-gets together about twice a year. Not enough for my liking, but since we’re spread across four states and our numbers have grown to include 14 children and nine adults, gathering us in one place now requires a plethora of pillows and blankets, a couple of refrigerators full of food and enough space to give us all at least some floor to curl up on at night. It takes planning, budgeting, and the ability to put aside any semblance of privacy for a few days while we all converge on somebody else’s house.

The last time most of us got together, last summer, our three-day vacation started out great but turned sour in the 25th hour, when one of the kids began complaining of nausea. By that evening, 75 percent of us were laid out with a nasty stomach bug, and the 7-Up and Pepto Bismol flowed like wine.

My oldest brother and I were the last holdouts. We spoke at around 10 p.m. on Night Two, each reporting that we thought we’d made it past the danger. Forty-five minutes later, I was lying face-down on the carpet next to the bathroom, trying to keep the contents of my stomach in through sheer force of will.

As it turns out, my will is not that strong.

The two-night vacation stretched out into three days and beyond. People were simply too sick to drive home. By the time the last person left my Aunt Paula’s house, we were all weak, tired, considerably thinner … and sure we’d never be invited back.

So it seemed particularly unfair that our very next get-together was also tainted by a whopper of a stomach bug. This year we were hosting, and the weekend leading up to New Year’s Eve, the entire family - plus a friend or two - descended upon our house. One night we were all sitting around stuffing our faces with leftover Christmas cookies and playing “Rock Band”. Twelve hours later, the first victim ran for the bathroom. Twenty-four hours later, we were dropping like flies.

The washer and dryer ran all weekend as we sent out the still-standing troops for 7-Up and Gatorade. I ran around obsessively wiping down toilet seats, doorknobs and faucet handles with bleach, but still spent two bleary-eyed nights getting up with sick children.

As the little ones ran around - even stomach viruses can’t dampen the fun of a house full of kids - we adults sat around on the couch looking weary. Though clean towels and sheets were in short supply, drama was not: I rang in New Year’s Eve hovering over my youngest with a bucket while paramedics wheeled my 11-year-old niece off to the ER for a breathing treatment (asthma attack, not stomach bug).

The family’s been gone for a few days now, but we’re still sitting on pins and needles. We’ve heard from others who’ve suffered from it that this is one of those bugs that can show up and punch you in the gut a week or two after exposure. In our little family, only three have gone down so far; but it could knock the rest of us out at any minute. If and when it does, will I regret inviting the whole crew and their germs to my house?

Nah. After all, that’s how it goes in a big family. One minute everyone is eating, laughing, and making merry; the next you’re all puking, crying, and begging for mercy. If we avoided each other every time there was a virus going around, we’d probably never see each other at all.

In the safety of our own homes, we might miss out on a night spent hovering over the toilet, but we’d miss the good times, too. Like making immature jokes about the body’s digestive functions at one another’s expense. Isn’t that what families and holidays and togetherness are about?

I can only hope that when my boys have grown and have kids of their own that they have the same kind of fun with their brothers as we do - stomach bugs and all.

But just in case? Before the next get-together, I may invest in surgical masks and rubber gloves.

This week, faced with a last-minute shopping emergency, I took the kids to the mall, a place that, this time of year, I try very hard to avoid. After we made our purchase, I was dodging crowds of holiday shoppers with my brood in tow when they spotted him.

Santa Claus.

I’m not sure if I should be proud or ashamed of this fact, but my kids have never sat on Santa’s lap. Belief in Mr. Claus has always been a much more abstract concept in our home.

At least one gift for each child comes directly from The Fat Man himself, evidenced by different wrapping paper and “LOVE, SANTA” scrawled in block printing on the tag.

His milk gets drunk, his cookies get eaten, we read “The Night Before Christmas” and make the usual comments about how we think we hear Santa’s sleigh coming. Yada, yada, yada.

But I’ve never felt the need to cap the Santa experience by taking my kids to the mall, waiting in line to plop one of them on an actor’s lap, and then paying $9 for a crappy souvenir photo. After all, by the time most kids are 5 or 6 they’ve figured out that the real Santa is busy overseeing his midget labor force in December, not going mall to mall asking kids what they want for Christmas. As if he really needs to be told. He is MAGICAL, after all.

What intrigued me, though, was that it was my oldest kids - who by their own admission are no longer believers - who seemed the most interested in a visit with Saint Nick. “Look, Mom, it’s Santa!” Jacob said. “We - I mean William and Owen - should really go tell them what we - I mean they - want for Christmas, don’t you think?”

There’s a big part of me that was heartbroken when my oldest decided he was no longer a believer, and I wanted to indulge the little-kid side of him. Besides, what could it hurt? So the five of us headed over to Santa’s Magical Parent Trap and got in line.

But everything seemed to fall apart once it was our turn. The big boys, who had just a few minutes before seemed excited by the prospect of getting up close and personal with Santa, decided to assume a cool, aloof stance once we got there and refused to come inside the gates at all. Owen took one look at “Santa’s” gray beard - or perhaps it was the belly that jiggled like a bowl full of jelly - and refused to go anywhere near him. “No, mom, no, mom, no!” he cried, clinging to my neck as though I was trying to turn him over to an orphanage. Pointing at Santa, he tearfully declared him “‘TUPID!”

I held out hope for William. After all, at just-turned-4, Will’s at prime believer age. To him, there’s nothing at all strange about the idea that Santa could be at thousands of malls at the same time, just like there’s nothing strange about the idea that an overweight man who likes to hang around with elves squeezes down millions of chimneys in one night.

But even William wasn’t going for it. He refused to make eye contact with Santa, instead creeping up to him sideways looking down at the floor. When Santa patted his lap and invited Will to jump on up, Will looked at me with alarm and said, “Do I have to?”

“No … but don’t you want to tell Santa what you want for Christmas?” I asked.

“Can you just tell him for me?” he asked, making a hasty retreat.

“He wants a guitar,” I said to Santa, as William backed away, his eyes on the floor.

Santa nodded.

“He’s shy,” I explained, as William hid behind his brothers and Owen let out a fresh shriek. Santa just stared. Really embarrassed now, I turned and fled.

“You want a picture?” the helper “elf” called after me.

But it was too late. The five of us holiday misfits were already hurrying toward the mall exit.

Before we left, though, we spent the nine bucks we’d saved on a round of Aunt Annie’s pretzels.

(my Christmas column from last year…)

While standing in line at the store today, a cart full of last-minute holiday necessities: batteries in a variety of shapes, sizes, wattage, and outlandish prices; Scotch tape and curling ribbon, tissue paper and name tags, and holiday-themed candies, I found myself reaching instinctively for the holiday issue of Martha Stewart Living.

As I waited in line behind a woman who had at least $650 worth of Christmas cheer to unload from her cart, I flipped through the pages and found page after page of directions for simple-looking (but in reality, probably pretty complicated) recipes, decorations and crafts that I would never, ever, ever, actually make.

That’s not always enough to make me put the issue of MSL down. Sometimes—like at Halloween, a time of year that’s far less emotionally-charged and busy—it’s enough just to flip through the magazine, oohing and aahing over the pictures and thinking of ways to re-create the ideas in my own, slightly less creative, artistic and expensive way. High-end designer magazines can be a kind of brain candy—sure, you can’t afford the stuff in the ads, and you lack the skill, time, or desire to actually follow through on the activities. But for an hour or so, you can pretend you’ll actually hand-paint that vintage picture frame you picked up at a flea market. Sometimes, that makes the magazine worth the $5 price tag.

But this time, I put it back. At this time of year, it’s just too easy to look at the tasteful photo spreads featuring angelic children dressed in matching designer pajamas and happy, rested-looking moms and dads in plush bathrobes and feel like your own family celebration somehow doesn’t measure up.

At Christmas, who needs the stress of wondering whether they’re really providing their families with just the right balance of restraint and festivity?

Our own holiday season kicked off with a much-less-than-perfect start. First there was the Christmas tree, which really looked puny when strapped to the top of the car, but wound up taking up so much space we had to remove half the living room furniture and cut a foot off the top.

Still, things seemed optimistic when we embarked on the yearly ritual of trimming the tree. But then, on his way to hang a ball of misshapen clay that is supposed to represent a snowman, Jacob hiccupped, which we mistook for a burp.

“Don’t burp in public, Jacob,” Jon said.

“I didn’t!” he protested.

“Sounded like it.”

“I DIDN’T! You’re just a big JERK!” Jacob cried in his newly dramatic way, flailing his arms as he ran from the room.

“Isaac, don’t put the ornaments too low, they might fall,” I said, moving a few glass balls out of Owen’s potentially-destructive reach. Isaac, offended by my criticism, fled the room as well.

Owen, who’s not so steady on his feet yet, ran into William, who was running circles around the room, and fell down. The holiday CD playing in the background started to skip: “jingle be- jingle be- jingle be- jingle be-“

Jacob refused to come out of his room. Isaac sniffled in the corner. Owen wailed. William kept running like a dog chasing its tail. Jon and I just looked at each other in disgust.

Christmas was totally ruined…for the moment.

But five minutes later, we were all back in the living room, joking and laughing and enjoying a new CD as we finished the tree, which seemed to have about 80% of its ornaments concentrated on one side and was definitely lacking that designer polish.

Later, there would be hot chocolate and cookie-making, but it involved store-bought cocoa instead of real cocoa beans, and at some point we’d get tired of cutting out cookies and just eat the leftover dough raw.

When people send me a holiday photo of a perfect-looking, smiling family in matching clean red sweaters, I like to imagine what everybody looked like just before and just after the camera clicked the winning picture. I imagine it may have involved tears and exasperation, stains and crumbs. And if they’re anything like my family, laughter and hugs, too. When it’s real, it all gets jumbled together like that.

In our family things don’t always look like a magazine spread: reality is messier, louder, tackier, and usually, cheaper. But it’s also warm and funny and alive in the way only real life can be. So I wish you a happy imperfect holiday.

And a tacky New Year.

Since my oldest child was a wee baby, I’ve “hung out” with a group of mothers at an online message board. We post messages back and forth about the banalities of motherhood, milestones, and dilemmas.

We also enjoy hearty debates on issues ranging from politics to parenting styles. And about this time every single year, a topic comes up that can turn the conversation downright nasty. This topic is so controversial that the debate can go on for days, even weeks; so divisive that it leaves friendships strained and feelings wounded.

The topic is Santa Claus.

Do your kids believe? Do YOU believe? Do you encourage your kids to believe? Do you encourage your non-believing kids to speak out about their (non) belief, or do you command that they remain mum in order to save the feelings of the believers?

Apparently, wherever you stand on this issue, you risk offending somebody else. If you promote your kids’ belief in Jolly Old Saint Nick, some will accuse you of perpetuating a lie to your children. When your kids find out the truth, say these Santa-nay-sayers, they’ll feel deeply wounded and disappointed, perhaps going through the rest of their lives experiencing surges of rage and deep depression every time they see a fat man in a red coat.

There are also those who call those parents who don’t encourage a belief in Kris Kringle—or those who actively discourage said belief. If you fall into this camp, believe me, there are people out there who think you’re the scroogiest Scrooge that ever lived, and you probably torture puppies too.

My kids believe in Santa. We write letters to Santa and give gifts from Santa, and I admit, in moments of weakness, to using “Santa’s watching!” as a threat for bad behavior. Of course, when it comes down to the crises of faith I try to remain reasonable, asking questions like “What do you think?” when faced with the inevitable “Mom, is Santa Claus for real?” query. But I’m glad they believe.

My eldest two have had doubts for a while, but while my oldest has thrown in the Santa towel, my second-oldest isn’t quite ready to give up the magic just yet. When I was a kid, I figured out the Santa thing at age eight, thanks to pre-Christmas snooping in my mom’s closet. And even after I knew, I pretended to believe for three more years, much to the amusement of the adults in my life. Even though I’d caught on, I wanted grown-ups to treat me as though I still believed—for their own sakes. They all seemed to get so much fun out of the Santa thing—who was I to wreck it for them?

And that’s what I think this debate really comes down to for me. See, I want to believe in Santa. Not the spirit of Santa. Not some “Yes, Virginia” run-around about poetry and generosity and romance. No, I actually want to believe that every Christmas Eve, a portly fellow with a white beard and rosy cheeks who slides his wide body down chimneys the world over. I want to listen for bells and footsteps on the rooftop and really hear them. This whole reasonable grown-up thing—good for wiping noses and buying groceries—suits me most of the time, but not at Christmas. At Christmas, I want magic.

When I had kids, I figured, it was my second chance. If my kids believed in Santa, I could also believe in Santa in a socially acceptable way. On my first Christmas Eve as a parent, I briefly entertained the wild notion of going to bed without putting anything under the tree just to see if Santa would show up. Though my husband intervened, I still wonder sometimes what might have happened if he hadn’t.

So if your non-believing children accidentally spill the beans to my family, don’t worry about my kids. For them, steeped in a world of joy and mystery, Christmas is magical no matter what.

But for me? Well, let’s just say that I might take it kind of hard. But I know, I know. It has to happen sooner or later.

Oh, well. There’s always the Easter Bunny, right?

As somebody who writes about parenting, I’m always interested in what advice the mainstream women’s magazines were dishing out a generation or two ago. Certainly in those days, when children were allowed to run around the neighborhood from dawn until dusk, only coming home to eat their (probably homemade) dinner, parents’ worries would be wildly different from those covered in today’s mainstream magazines … right?

Not so much. As it turns out, the saying “there’s nothing new under the sun” applies to parenting worries as well. I spent some time perusing a nearly 50-year-old issue of Good Housekeeping magazine over the weekend, and while the bras were pointier, the hairstyles more coiffed, and the Jello mold recipes looked like something I could never convince anyone in my family to eat, a lot of the concerns and advice were strangely similar to what you might see in a mainstream magazine nowadays. But in a contest, which year would come out ahead - 2007 or 1958? Here are my votes:

• In 1958, childhood obesity was a leading concern among pediatricians. Ten percent of children, the Good Housekeeping article reported, were overweight. Compared with a recent study in the International Journal of Childhood Obesity that indicated that by 2010, 50 percent of children in North and South America will likely be overweight, I suppose 10 percent is small potatoes. At that rate, by the time our kids are grandparents, ALL children will be overweight. Perhaps by then, we’ll have done away with food entirely and everyone will be getting perfect nutrition in the form of a pill … but I’m not holding my breath. In this contest, I think I’d have to say 1958 is the clear winner.

• Like 2007, parents in 1958 were advised not to allow their children to pull heavy cabinets on themselves or stick metal objects in electrical outlets. Unlike 2007, however, 1950s babies enjoyed playing on toys animated by springs strong enough to cut off a finger, and often slept in nightgowns that featured long strings and ribbons around their necks. Of course, for all our advances in child safety, we haven’t been able to keep lead out of our kids’ toys. The verdict? A tie.

• In 1958, parents and educators were concerned that learning standards in schools were sliding. Children, the article argued, were graduating from high school without a firm grasp of grammar and math, unable to think critically and unprepared for the world beyond school. Reading it, I could swear I read almost the same article in Newsweek a month or two ago. A tie again.

• In 1958, cloth diapers were the only option and there wasn’t much choice involved. Pins and rubber pants were every new mom’s reality. Nowadays, parents who decide to use cloth diapers are welcomed by a dizzying array of options, from pin-free versions that use Velcro, snap, and other creative closures, to “all-in-ones” that are just like a disposable you can wash and re-use. You can even buy diapers that can be flushed down the toilet. I would say that’s a definite improvement. The winner? 2007.

As I read on, 2007 and 1958 seemed to continue to come out as a tie. For example, today there are life-saving surgeries and treatments that save the lives of children that 50 years ago would have died. Then again, kids these days seem to be developing asthma and allergies at a disturbing rate. Decades ago children worried about the nuclear bomb. But today, they absorb many more violent images on TV and in video games than ever before.

One thing was comforting, though. Reading a woman’s magazine from nearly half a century ago, I realized that every generation of parents worries about their children and the state of the world they’re bringing them up in. And from generation to generation, most kids do okay, and grow up to worry over children of their own.

I can only hope that when my own kid’s kids worry about my great-grandchildren, that they see that for everything that’s gotten a little bit worse, something else has gotten a lot better.

When my oldest child was a toddler and I wasn’t sure how to structure my time as a new at-home mom, I took to a life in front of the TV: “Teletubbies,” then a talk show or two, followed by back-to-back episodes of “Designing Women” and “The Golden Girls” on Lifetime.

Fun for a few days. Pretty depressing after a few months.

So I went to a few morning playgroups to let Jacob toddle around while I had some adult conversation. The groups were generally held at a park, church nursery or other kid-oriented location, the other moms and I would all sit on benches or chairs facing the kids (not each other), make small talk and comment on their behavior, development or disposition. Because we were so focused on what the kids were doing, it was difficult to strike up meaningful conversations. Or, frankly, have much fun.

So I was intrigued when I read an article in the New York Times earlier this year about “cocktail playgroups”: informal hang-outs where moms enjoy a glass of wine or a beer while they watch the kids play. Reactions around the Internet were mixed, with some moms simply aghast: Drinking around children? Isn’t that, like, dangerous? And aren’t play groups supposed to be fun for KIDS, not moms?

A while later I heard about a new event called Baby Loves Disco. (events here in Chicago, ya’ll!) It’s a mid-afternoon music party where parents and kids can get their groove on, complete with lights and loud-ish music in a real, but childproofed, nightclub (note: adults can only come if they bring kids with them). Cool idea, huh? Not according to some critics, who accuse the founders of trying to “replicate the adult clubbing experience” for children, and who accuse parents of being too permissive, trying to be a friend instead of a parent and just in general setting a bad example.

Personally? I don’t think this is really about alcohol, loud music or permissiveness. I think that many people have gotten the idea that when you have kids, your life is supposed to revolve around them at all times. The message is clear: whether it’s drinks or music or dancing, any activity you can bring your kids to that doesn’t revolve 100 percent around their entertainment and needs is just plain wrong. The only fun you’re supposed to have around kids, if you listen to these sanctimonious types, is the kind that comes from putting together puzzles or playing Candy Land for the 195th time. Or - shudder - listening to Kidz Bop.

When I was a kid, my siblings and cousins were rounded up at a family members’ house and sent to the play room to amuse ourselves while our parents hung out and did grown-up stuff (talking=boring!). Babies and toddlers would stay with the adults and get passed around, and the older kids and grown-ups might intermingle or they might not, but it was understood that kids and adults could co-exist in the same place and each have their own kind of fun.

But in this day and age, the family hangout has largely been replaced by separate activities for grown-ups and kids: if you’re going someplace that might include adult fun, kids stay at home with a sitter, and if you’re planning an event for kids, it should by definition NOT appeal to grown-ups. What you end up with is kids and adults being separated into their own little worlds and wanting to poke out their own eyes from boredom whenever those worlds collide. Gee, what a treat for everyone involved.

Our lives are so often consumed by our kids: what they’re eating, what they’re wearing, what they’re playing. Why should we feel obligated to get a sitter every time we want to do something that’s not completely geared toward children? As long as everybody keeps their wits about them - which yes, you can do if you drink, or dance, responsibly - what’s the big deal? It’s your right not to have a drink or shake your booty around your kids if you feel like it’s not good for them. But please know that I can have fun, do grown-up stuff and still be a responsible parent. And no, I don’t try to relive my adolescence through my kids. I already went through youth once, and the kids are welcome to it. But as much as I want them to have their own kind of fun, I also want them to see how the adult world works. And that’s not going to happen if we only spend time together at Chuck E Cheese.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go reserve tickets for a Baby’s First Martini party.

Just kidding.

–cross-posted at the Chicago Moms Blog

Somewhere out there, in a drawer perhaps or buried in a box, or maybe - if your parents have a really good sense of humor - hung on your living room wall, is a perfectly awful school picture of you. Your hair is a knotted mess, you’re wearing a dirty shirt, or you’re smirking, frowning or making some totally unflattering face. Whatever the circumstances, it’s a rare human who gets through their childhood without at least one embarrassing school photo.

Childhood can be an awkward time. Kids lose their teeth and their adult replacements are about three times the size, turning them into woodchucks. Hair works its way free from braids and ponytails or “does the Alfalfa,” as we like to say in our family when one lock on the crown stands straight up. Kids get dirty, kids get rumpled and kids don’t always like to smile on cue.

And yet I can’t help but notice that the photos I take of my own kids in their rumpled, dirty, messy-haired, big-toothed glory don’t make them look like carnival freaks at all; but normal, happy, and dare I say, cute instead. And I’m no pro.

Strangely, however, the so-called professional school photographers - you know, the company that’s been taking bad pictures of my kids and their classmates for decades - is still in business.

It’s because parents are suckers.

Despite that the unprofessional snapshots I take of my kids are about ten times better than anything they’ve ever brought home from school, I still feel obligated to purchase school pictures.

First of all, the ordering process seems to use some kind of witchery to confuse parents. For example, I need a 5×7 for us and the grandparents, and 3×5s for aunts and uncles, and 2×3 wallets for extended family. But a typical package might contain one 11×13 picture and 32 one-inch wallets. I can never get those coveted 5×7s and the 3×5s in one reasonably-priced package. Actually, none of the packages are what I’d call “reasonably priced” considering the quality.

Chances are good I’ll never send out the school portraits, choosing instead to bless my relatives with photos that don’t make my children look like mutants.

Every year, I look at the huge stack of unattractive leftover pictures littering my office and swear that next year, I’ll skip the school pics. But every fall that order form comes home and somehow I get suckered in again.

Like this year. After agonizing over the package and picture options, I finally wrote out a hefty check and sent the form and my kids to school with the highest expectations.

The three of them left looking well-groomed and well-rested. Not one of them went to school that day with messy hair, turned-up collars or severe depression. So imagine my surprise when a couple of weeks later, they brought home pictures that made them look like Bart Simpson, Elvis and a future serial killer.

Perhaps instead of saying “Smile!” before taking the shot, the photographer - and I use that term loosely - said something like “I torture puppies!” Truly, that’s the only explanation I can come up with for Isaac’s somber expression.

I’d send them back in for retake day, but the last time I did that, the retakes were actually WORSE than the originals.

I know it must be beyond difficult to photograph a school full of children and try to turn out halfway decent pictures. But this is the year 2007, people. Take a few digital shots and dump the ones that make the children look maniacal or on the verge of tears. Or put them up online and give parents the option of choosing the picture they like before they plunk down their hard-earned money on a package.

But why should they change? After all, their business model seems to be working out for them. Even after railing about how bad our photos are, I missed the one-day cutoff for refunds. I have to imagine many busy parents do.

Looks like Bart, Elvis, and the serial killer are here to stay.