First Published in the Tri-Town Transcript, Nov 5, 2015
By Esther C. Baird
Well, it’s November. The only constant of late has been the yellow brick road we marched down for our younger daughter’s school play, “Oz!”.
She had waited her entire life (all eight years) to be old enough to audition. And once cast, she took her theatre debut very seriously. At home she shut herself in her room to ‘run lines,’ and at school, she attended the nearly daily rehearsals for almost two months. It was dizzying.
Especially during the performance week with four shows in three days.
Did I mention her role? She was . . . a munchkin . . . with four lines.
Four very essential lines!! Plus copious stage time which required her, with no words at all, to exude the essence of munchkinness. What was her backstory? What was her motivation to celebrate the death of not one, but two, witches? How did her inner-munchkin feel about being forever dressed in bright colors with a squeaky voice
I can tell you how the mother of the munchkin felt, especially if I heard her sing, “Follow the road, road, road, follow the road,” one more time. Twitchy! I mean proud. I’d feel proud.
And I was. Because of course the performances were fantastic and we parents loved all of our little stars for working so hard. We were also proud of ourselves for practically living at school and whipping up dinners from the trunks of our cars. Bravo!
So what better way to reward all of the effort than a post-show ice-cream party??
To what can I compare the cast of 35 sleep deprived, hyperactive, ravenous children, up past their bed time, at Richardson’s in Middleton? Spraying a nest of hornets? Throwing a steak into a pack of coyotes? Shopping on Black Friday with a toddler?
I entered Richardson’s ready to exude parental peace, but gave up before I made it to the counter. There was only one response to the fever pitch of kids amped up on sugar.
“I’ll have two scoops of chocolate peanut butter,” I stated. I glanced at my vibrating, nearly breathless, daughter, “What would you like, Sweetie . . . because I’m not sharing.”
Honesty is one of my strong suits.
As I ate, I kept an eye on my daughter who was inhaling her body weight in Triple Chocolate Death. Her hair was plastered to her head with sweat, her eyes lined in smeared stage makeup – – she was exhibiting all the signs of a child for whom the wheels had very much come off. The wheels had possibly caught on fire.
It was time to make a graceful exit. “We’re leaving in five minutes!”
She stared at me as if I was the Wicked Witch of the West. I knew that look. I had missed the ‘graceful exit’ window. I was now just hoping to leap onto the emergency exit slide and see where we landed.
She burst into tears in the car.
“We’re the first to leave!” she wailed.
False: another child had come, thrown up, and left.
“You didn’t see all of my shows!” she sobbed.
True: I’d seen three shows but had given up tickets for one so that parents with none could attend, (and possibly I snuck out for a glass of wine).
“And . . .” she cried, “My mascara is running!!!”
Super true: eight year old and mascara are a bad match.
“But,” I smiled, “You were a munchkin in the play and you were amazing! Your first play!! It was SO EXCITING!” I checked the rearview mirror to see if she was coming around. She nodded at me as if to keep going. So I did. “Wasn’t it great!? Wasn’t it fun!?” I beamed.
She smiled, the storm had passed. And then she took it to the next, inevitable, level. “It was SO great! I can’t wait to do it again next year!!”
Good, I’d locked myself in for a few more year – – it’s what mother’s do best. But first munchkins young and old needed their beds, because, and you knew this was coming . . . there’s no place like home.