We are finished
within fifteen seconds. "Thanks a lot!"
They
both smile.
"We'll call if we're interested."
That was
a waste, I think, until the phone rings four days
later.
What keeps
me doing it
"Izzy
has a go-see for Carter's tomorrow at 2 p.m. Broadway
and Prince. Be on time."
"But
you don't even have the pictures!" I scramble
for a pen.
"That's
OK!" Click.
Over the
span of a week, we try three "go-sees,"
audition-type things where you put your baby on
a mat and try to get him to laugh, while a baby
wrangler waggles toys in his face and a photographer
snaps Polaroids. Izzy does big smiles for all but
we hear nothing. Drive an hour each way for something
that takes all of three minutes? I'm not so sure
about this.
The week
of Thanksgiving there are no calls. Maybe they've
given up on us. There goes our shot at life in the
fast lane.
"Lisa!"
The answering machine is on and beeping, my husband's
voice squealing over the tape. "If you're there,
pick up! Izzy has a job for Lord and Taylor!"
I wrestle the shopping bags onto the floor and nearly
trample the dog to get to the phone.
"You
mean a go-see?" I pant, grabbing the receiver.
"No,
a job! He has to be there by 9 a.m. on Friday. Call
Wilhelmina right now to confirm. And get a cell
phone already!"
The day after
Thanksgiving, I hustle Izzy down to his job, where
he earns $75 for posing in a sweater for half an
hour.
No easy money.
The entire time is spent trying to get him to not
crawl to me while lights flash and bulbs pop in
his face. He is fussy and not himself, and I keep
banging my head on the reflector screens. We take
a break to nurse, and the photographer sighs. "I
think that's it for today. We've got what we need."
She's blowing us off. I'm sure of it.
"Um,
what is this for, exactly?"
"An
ad in the New York Times."
Her tone is flat. "It should be out in a couple
of weeks."
I have to
forcibly restrain my mouth from gaping, as I get
Izzy dressed and out of there.
How people
outside the business perceive me
"You're
the last person we thought would be into something
like this," one of the women in my new moms
group tosses out.
What's that
supposed to mean?
"We
all can't believe it," she continues, chewing
into the phone. "Not that Izzy's not beautiful
or anything, but (munch, munch), you know."
Every mother
I've met has one of three reactions when they find
out Izzy is a model: "That's so cool! Let me
see the picture. Oh, wow!" (GENUINE CURIOSITY),
or "So many people say Cory is gorgeous and
that we should do it too, but I wouldn't want to
do all that running around" (ENVY), or "Aren't
you worried he's going to be full of himself when
he gets older?" (SELF-ESTEEM ISSUES).
"Did
you get to keep the clothes?" another mother
asks. Everyone seems to wonder about this.
"No,"
I grab the vacuum cleaner plug out of Izzy's hand.
"And would you believe the doorman even checked
my bag when we left the building? What did they
think—we'd steal the outfit?"
My mother
makes two hundred copies of the Lord and Taylor
ad to send with her holiday cards. The remainder
she passes out to people she meets in grocery stores
and such.
How I fit
in
I'm not the
only one in ripped jeans and rainbow socks. There
are actually a number of very cool baby model parents,
many of whom I would choose as friends. These are
the messy looking types who understand that it's
not us getting our pictures taken, the ones who
save me with pieces of bagel and spare toys when
my diaper bag isn’t adequately packed.
And then,
there are the rest.
Think of
those people you pass by on the street who make
loud kissy noises at your dog without even glancing
at you. The baby model parents I refer to here just
want to compete.
"I like
your stroller!" they declare, when you know
they're thinking, That baby is not as cute as Jennifer.
Or, "Oooohhh,
poor thing," when your baby starts crying,
and you know they're like, Yay! One down!
I am always
suspicious of parents who have the routine down
pat. "Happy birthday to you, happy birthday
to you!" This kid's father is clapping and
dancing around the light screen. Poor girl will
never know how old she is. "C'mon, Katie, you
can do it! Smile for papa!" And like a trained
monkey, the little baby does her star grin, pointing
a finger right into the camera. "There you
go! Very good, sweetie!"
All right,
I'm jealous.
Stage moms
My first live
one corners me at a go-see. "What agency are
you with?" Her eyes narrow in on Izzy, who
is drooling Cheerio juice. "Wilhelmina."
"You
are!" She’s furious. "I can't believe
they didn't tell us!" Her daughter presses
against the back wall of the elevator. She looks
about six, and I wonder why, at 10:30 in the morning,
she isn’t in school.
"How
did you know about the go-see if they didn't call?"
"Oh,
I know everything," she asserts. "We have
contacts all over the business. I'm friends with
Sheri and Lila, and Bob and I do lunch every couple
of weeks."
Who are these
people?
"Plus,
we call each other every day to see what's going
on, who's going where. So I know."
"How
long have you been doing this?" I ask, as she
follows us out of the elevator, her daughter trailing
behind.
"Six
years. Just a sec." She blocks the way of a
woman and her baby entering the building. "Are
you with Wilhelmina?" The woman nods. "Unbelievable!
I am so pissed at them!"
We reach
the sidewalk. "So have you had much luck?"
I ask.
Suddenly,
the daughter is on. "I've been on Montel
Williams," she pipes up.
"Tell
them what else," her mother croons.
"And
two commercials," the little girl continues.
You can tell she's been through this a few times.
"And Sears has a hold on me."
"They're flying us out to California next week
for the shoot," her mom brags. I’m not
going to ask about school.
"And
Ally McBeal,"
her daughter chants.
"That's
great!" The energy it takes to smile at these
people is getting a bit overwhelming. "See
you again, I'm sure!"
Why I stay
"College
fund," is the reason most people give. Get
real. The money I spend on EZ Pass tolls and trainfare
is way more than Izzy earns, and I've never even
paid for a parking garage or Amtrak back to Baltimore.
I can't even estimate a figure for anxiety over
trying to time the car rides so he sleeps at least
one way.
So why am
I still in the game?
I already
told you in the beginning. I'm a photo freak! The
scrapbooks of Eddie Van Halen and Boy George, former
objects of devotion, are gathering dust. I'm ready
to move on.
Besides,
I'll do anything for a Gap ad. That's all I want.
Just kidding. A stage mom at the Target job takes
credit for that one.
be
up for it, though."