Angela Dove: Award-Winning Writer

Billingsley and Carlotta. That’s what caught my attention first. A woman in a designer white linen dress, holding onto a matching white hat with exquisite pearl detail, was screaming at the top of her lungs.

“Billingsley! Carlotta! Get over here right now before the photographer gets mad!”

Even her shrieks could not dampen the beauty of this late summer afternoon. The beach was largely deserted, and the string from my children’s box kite made a soft humming noise as the breeze bounced the kite around above our blanket. My husband had our two kids down near the surf where they were spending a few final moments among the shells and sea foam. The last day of vacation. I was trying to commit it to memory when we were invaded by the woman with the flowing linen dress and her two linen-clad offspring. 

And, of course, their photographer.

I had watched them with interest at first. The little girl had long blonde hair like her mother and wore a linen sundress. The boy wore white linen pants, a white dress shirt, tailored jacket, and a jaunty captain’s hat. They looked like they’d all popped out of one of those children’s fashion catalogs I occasionally glance through before deciding that I could either

(a) buy each of my children one of the lower priced outfits, or

(b) purchase three months’ worth of groceries for our entire family.

The photographer snapped away as the mother tried to settle her children near her. The brim of her hat kept getting caught in the breeze, which meant she had to keep turning loose of the children in order to hold her hat on her head. At one point the breeze grabbed the voluminous material of her skirt and wrapped it around her daughter. The girl, maybe three, started lifting her mother’s skirt high over her head and running underneath it.  

“Carlotta, no!” The woman yanked her skirt back down before the photographer immortalized the look.

With his mother otherwise occupied, the boy saw his chance and took it. He ran for the waves.

“Billingsley! Come back!”

The photographer perked up. His lens followed the boy running gleefully toward the water, his sailor hat falling onto the warm sand behind him. The little girl shrieked happily and ran after her big brother. I’m guessing that was probably the best shot of the day. We’ll never know, because the mother made it clear that she was not interested in photos of her children actually enjoying themselves. Then she turned on her heel and started threatening her children with the impending anger of the photographer. "The photographer is tired of you two misbehaving! He's very irritated!"

For his part, the photographer looked completely unaffected. Taking the bag of lenses from his shoulder, he rummaged through it, fished out a bottle of water, and enjoyed a nice long drink while leaning against his tripod.

Little Billingsley ran toward my son (sporting the best in Scooby Doo), who proffered a blue plastic shovel.  The kid reached for it, but there was Fashion Mom, shouting that he absolutely could not get dirty.  She held the little girl tightly, and I noticed the tot looked less cherubic when wailing complaints.  Billingsley turned, defeated, and trudged back up the beach. Poor kid. As if being named Billingsley wasn't bad enough. The photographer put his water back in the bag and took a quick light reading.  And that’s when the Big Mistake happened.

Fashion Mom put little Carlotta down on the sand. Carlotta started toward the waves. Her mother made a grab for her. The girl dodged. Billingley ran the other way. It was a flat out revolt. Mom weighed her options and ran for the boy. But she didn’t make it in time. Billingsley didn’t break stride until he was knee deep in ocean. Fashion Mom screamed as the wind whipped her hat away and it rolled down the beach. Carlotta stared at the spectacle. Then, in a move I knew had come from her mother, she spun on her heel so fast that her hair fanned out behind her. It was like a ticked off conditioner commercial. “I’m sick of this!” she announced to no one in particular, and she marched toward the parking lot.

The photographer lifted his water bottle again. Then he looked over at me and raised it in a classic “cheers” manner. I knew we were thinking the same thing: you can name your kids Billingsley and Carlotta, but that doesn't take the Raggedy Ann & Andy out of them.