Nancy's got her first passport.
With the worst picture ever.
I thought mine was bad enough. I've got some kind of weird side parting and tight bun, giving the illusion of a comb over.
I look a bit like a Hitler. Sans 'tashe.
But this is something else.
We'd had one failed attempt to get the pictures taken at the photo shop at the bottom of our road last week. We'd intended to pop in one the way home from town. But then there was the projectile vom incident, so we missed that window.
Aware that she's going to have this for the next 5 years, I left Ben with instructions to dress her in something nice. Something we're not going to look at in 2018 and wonder what possessed us.
So off they went. Nancy in an animal print top. Hair brushed. Face washed. Beautiful as ever.
Thing is, the fella in the photo shop must be mainly used to snapping pics of babies.
Not kids who can quite happily sit up, potentially sit still for a couple of seconds. And maybe even look in the direction of the camera, if given the right encouragement.
He laid her down on a pillow, and asked Ben to move her hair off her forehead, which had been carefully brushed at home.
So. With centre parting and gravity not on her side, the photographer took a quick picture from above.
And a minute later, Ben was a tenner lighter and in possession of photo that literally looks nothing like our daughter.
I know the camera adds pounds. But I thought that was just on telly. Nancy looks like shes been on the Atkins diet, with the addition of carbs, since birth.
Not too dissimilar to Chunk from The Goonies.
We've got a loose plan to go somewhere at Easter. Our first family holiday abroad.
So with no time to get another one done, I sent it off.
I can just imagine explaining to passport control for the next few years how she didn't ever really look like that.
That it was a dodgy photographer and a bad angle.
Bore some poor unsuspecting's ear off who genuinely doesn't give a shit, and just wants to get through the line-up of holiday makers who are waiting to go to Tenerife, how she was the most beautiful child when she was 18 months.
How she had the best toothy smile and sparkly eyes.
How shop assistants and bus drivers and librarians told her how lovely she was.
Because these are the kind of pictures that can traumatise a girl later in life.
When they crop up on some central government database when she's running for Prime Minister.
Probably in the same file as the picture of her mum with the middle aged fellas hair cut.