There is no "I" in Theater

I would like to be able to open this post by saying something like, “It’s play season again!”, but alas - it’s almost always play season in our house. For the most part, being involved in theater is a well-rounded activity for most kids. I still expect good grades - better than good actually if they want a shot in hell of getting into a decent college with some good scholarship chances. Actually, the status of their grades is a factor in whether or not they will be allowed to audition for a play. That’s how serious we are about it. Being able to participate in a play is a privilege. It’s also a commitment that comes with sacrifices at times. It’s work. There are good lessons for kids to learn.

Though my kids choose to be involved most of the year, early spring is an especially active time for local theater – both within the schools and with the community groups. Audition dates are penciled in and choices are ranked based on musical vs. non-musical, what group is producing, scheduling conflicts and the all-important – which friends are doing which shows – duh.

But wait…my youngest son is about to start a s-s-s-sport? This is new - a true first for us. (Pretty sure that ski club doesn’t count.) This will be good. Right? My hope is that he will benefit from things like routine physical activity, sportsmanship, dealing with competition and possible failure and hopefully - since he has been raised primarily by women - a hint of guy bonding that doesn’t revolve around an Xbox. We realized that he probably shouldn’t audition for a local production of Oliver. He is already part of his middle schools play so adding yet another rehearsal schedule to a volleyball schedule wouldn’t be prudent. Really? What 12 year old boy doesn’t want to be in Oliver? Well - mine apparently.

I have been pondering this change to our family dynamic for a few weeks now and I have come to some conclusions. Theater and sports are not all that different. Both require hard work, a certain level of commitment, the ability to understand your strengths and weaknesses and accept your best place on the “team”. The last part became abundantly clear after a recent round of auditions. My younger daughter auditioned for said Oliver. For the first time ever, she became very attached to one particular role. She focused her all of energies and all of her hopes on landing this one role. As she conversed continuously in a Cockney accent, I watched with some trepidation as her hopes rose higher and higher. I felt that she had a shot at it but so did many others.

I tried to caution her about her expectations. It was one of those classic parental dilemmas. How do you inject some a possible reality without shaking your child’s confidence? Why do we, as parents, do this? Because we know we absolutely do NOT want to handle a possibly heartbreaking negative outcome. (Just to tie in the sports theme here, let me admit to Monday morning quarterbacking this insight.) According to her, auditions went well and we settled into the waiting mode. Teenage texts flew back and forth and practicing for the next auditions intensified. Then… the cast list came out… early. We were not prepared. (That’s me pretending preparedness.) Damn instant, social media! We had just settled into a Redbox when I noticed the posting.

“It’s up.” I said.

“No. Wait. Don’t tell me.”

“I’m not gonna look yet.”

“If you look, don’t tell me.”

“No. Wait. You don’t look either. “

“I’m gonna look.”

“Someone will say something or text me so I better look.” she said.

We looked at the same time. I try not to look at her because she hates that. I hear quiet sniffling. She didn’t get it. I continue to read. Her name is listed further down for a bit – but named – speaking part.

My greatest hope is that we are thinking the same thing – if she hadn’t so set her sights on that one role – she would be thrilled with the part she did get. I hope that she is thinking that the girl that did get the role is an excellent choice. The recipient is talented, one year older, has worked hard at theater and has always been a “team” player. If I was allowed to speak – which I somehow know I am not – I would ask her if she wants a hug. Sometimes words don’t work with a smart kid. Stating the obvious or other platitudes won’t make her feel any better. So we sit and pretend to watch Men in Black III knowing that we are going to need to re-rent it.

I am guessing that this is how parents of sport kids feel when your kid’s team loses - not because your kid played poorly but because the other team played better that day. Sometimes we just have to watch as our kids suffer losses knowing that, while it is killing us and making us feel inept as parents – we are making them stronger people.

Another theater mom recently asked me if I had any insight in to the most recent auditions since I was there. Her daughter was hurt by the abrupt dismissal of the kids that the director & music director did not wish to hear sing again. She said that her daughter was considering not doing the drama club anymore because she felt overlooked. First thing I disclaimed was any involvement in the casting on my part. I show up to hand out forms and attempt to quiet excited high schoolers – then I come in to paint sets. Casting is not my thing. The second thing I tried to explain was that two nights of auditions were being packed into one night due to an early snow dismissal and the availability of our hired music director. Things had to move right along. I did feel a little complicit as my daughter was one that was “called back” to re-sing so I went on to try and express how many of the kids that tended to get roles were the kids who have put the time into theater. My daughter did six shows last year, with four different groups. Sometimes she had an actual part – many times she was part of an ensemble. Each show was an opportunity to get better at what she loves to do. My friend’s daughter is a sweet voiced, cheerful kid – one of my favorites - but generally only does the school shows. I haven’t heard back from her yet.

 Maybe I should have put it into a sports analogy. (Spoiler alert: I never bought into the whole trophy-for-every-kid-just-for-participating/there-are-no-winners-or-losers theory.) Is a “coach” expected to address each player personally, taking into account every player’s individual circumstances or does he make line-ups and calls based on the players’ performance histories and capability levels? Does a coach reward players based on improvement and choose the best player for the position all in an effort to create a winning team? Can a player skip practices and work-outs most of the season then show up and expect to play in the big games? Even if your kid is a good player, there will always be those that will get more playing time for many of different reasons. Sometimes it’s as simple as lots of players are trying out for few openings, (or lots of girls trying out for two girl roles). Sometimes your kid doesn’t get the spot on the team – no matter how good her Cockney accent is.

Hey - I might be okay with this whole s-s-s-sports twist. There is quite a bit of crossover. I have even seen heat exhaustion, pulled muscles and broken noses happen in theater. Though I am sure that it will raise many other interesting quandaries like - what does one wear to a middle school volleyball game?

Our "Village"

Did you ever sit back and reflect on something that your kids did that just made you ask, “Where did she/he learn that?” It generally happens to me when one of mine, big or little, does something that I don’t feel that I have sufficiently taught them. I’m talking about something good here. (If it’s something not good, that’s easy - I can place that on their other parent’s heads via genetics.) 

Let me give you an example. One evening my youngest was sprinting back and forth between our house and his friend’s house. Up and down the significant hill we live on he ran, gathering all forms of art supplies, tin foil, empty bottles…. “Do you have something that could look like milk but isn't? ” he asked me. Knowing these boys, I was happy that no real liquids were involved but I still had to ask “For what?” His buddy, one year younger than him, had a project due the following day so Riley was helping him to get it done in time. I asked him about his own project that was due early the next week. “But Mom – he’s stressing and he’s sad and I’m good at these things – even if I haven’t read the book.” I reminded him that he hadn't finished his own book so he’d better be REALLY good at them.

See how I dropped the ball there? With full hair and make-up, I could have turned that into a Hallmark moment or at the very least, a Kodak commercial but instead I helped him load a backpack and sent him off. What in him triggered his need to help his friend and make him not sad? (I mean, when he fights with his sister there is most certainly the intent to do bodily harm.) After what occurred at our house one pre-Christmas night, I think I have kinda figured out part of this mystery. Our kids learn things from everyone around us - the whole “village”.

After a seemingly successful job interview, the first in a long time, I decided, since the car was still running, to bypass my home and attempt some gift shopping for our family holiday gathering. The criterion for our gift exchange has gone from quaint to bizarre. This year all gifts needed to fit in a pocket. This required some seriously thought filled shopping. I hate shopping. Especially in the heels I still had on from the job interview. Jeez! What sized pocket? It could mean a jeans pocket which holds nothing or parka pocket which could hold a small pet. I managed to make some headway with the shopping for what my older daughter is calling our “Little House on the Prairie” Christmas and headed home. Earlier that same pre-Christmas week, two friends had surprised us with a Christmas tree so it was good to know I was going home to a festive feeling house. Little did I know...

I grabbed the bag with a frozen vegetarian pizza that was serving as tonight’s dinner, off the floor of my car and turned to see three of my friends (and one teenage son) walking up the driveway from three cars that were parked in the street. (The three car part was just odd since two of the three are married to each other.) My initial “What’s the matter?” reaction says more about me than it does about them. I feared that I had missed some meeting or the like, in my irritated, post shopping haze.

They assured me that nothing was wrong. They explained that my last blog post had gone a little bit “viral” within our town and that people wanted to help. Their cars were filled with gifts for all of the kids, food, dozens of gift cards for local merchants and so, SO much more. They tried to assure me that many of the donations were made by people who didn't know who we were. I didn't believe that. I wanted names. Once it all sank in - because I knew it hadn't yet - I wanted to be able to acknowledge each and every one of them. They rattled off some names – and more names – and more… It was a true “It’s a Wonderful Life” moment. (With a bit of searching, I’m sure we could have found a Bevin Bell to ring.)

But wait…did they miss the message of my posting? No. They didn't  I watched my kids’ faces as they began to register what was happening. The best gift of the night was when all of my kids – from 12 to 24 – fully understood what this wonderful collection of people – friends, neighbors, relatives of friends & “unknown” friends – had done for us for no reason other than pure goodness. My youngest son helped his friend because we live in a place that models that – daily.

The second best gift of the night was when my younger daughter followed me out to the car to retrieve our frozen veggie pizza and stated “I can’t wait to pay this forward!”

We will continue to mourn here in Connecticut. There are some things we can’t fix. Right now there is nothing we can do for Sandy Hook. We know that. They have asked to be allowed to heal and grieve amongst themselves – their “village”. We can give them that.To those in my town that opted to mirror Anne Curry’s suggested 26 acts of kindness path – you’re good. Thank you our “village”.

Perspective

December 14, 2012 started out badly for me. I woke to take my younger kids to their respective schools and came home to clean the ever present pile of cat poop from the front hall. Then I proceeded to unload the dishwasher, wipe down counters, straighten throws and pillows, pick up isolated socks and hoodies, organize the pile of discarded shoes inside the front door and brush crumbs from the sofa while debating the whole vacuuming thing. While I did all of this, I was crying quietly yet uncontrollably. I knew why.

Christmas does not exist for us this year. Financially I can’t make it happen. I don’t know how to explain it to my kids and make it okay. Explaining that their dad is nearly $70k behind in child support won’t help them understand. He has been behind for years but I always managed to make Christmas happen. This year I have hit a wall. We have no tree and I have not had the heart to break out the rest of the decorations though I will eventually. Watching the endless stream of holiday movies depresses me this year. Their quandaries seem simplistic. Barring illness, if they can afford to meet a friend for lunch or Christmas shop for gifts – they have no real insurmountable problems. 

Walt Jedziniak Photography

I really have tried to focus on the what-we-haves versus what-we-don’ts. My 14 year old portrayed the Ghost of Christmas past in recent production of her high school drama club’s A Christmas Carol. They are trying to rejuvenate the program so I was happy to paint sets and my 12 year old and I finally worked on a stage crew together. It was a feel good time but then the kids ask to be driven to various activities then quickly realize that it would cost gas and whatever funds might be required and they quickly retract the request. Add to this the failing transmission in my eleven year old car that is going to require a multi-thousand dollar repair once it does go…ho, ho, ho… Planning the annual family party and gift exchange at my sister’s house forty five miles away, two days before Christmas, is an exercise in pure fiction on my part. Yes, I know I am pulling a total Scarlet O’Hara but really – I will think about it tomorrow.

Yet each morning, once I go through my morning routine, I sit down and hit the job boards. I apply for any position that I could possibly be considered for. I do this knowing that even if I were to find something, it wouldn't be in enough time to fix Christmas this year and if it is more than a few miles from where we live, my car might not get me there. But I do it anyway on this December morning. I remind myself that Christmas is only one day and I need to continue on and think about our post-Christmas existence so I turn on the Today Show and boot up my laptop. 

Breaking news alerts interrupt the regular Today Show. A possible school shooting in Newtown, Connecticut but information is limited. I am familiar with Sandy Hook and have a good friend in Newtown. It’s about 40 miles from where we live now. The scenes on the screen are bustling but not frantic. I cautiously hope that the reported shots were a high school prank. 

It becomes apparent that the report is not a prank. As I watch the local anchors admirably struggle contain their own emotions, the reality of what has happened within the elementary school is confirmed. At least twenty four are dead – mostly children. I am cold.

Part of me wants to drive to my kids schools and bring them home but the other part wants them to never have to know about this. My daily plans and worries stop. I watch previously filmed footage of parents speed walking to the scene and know that at some of them were not reunited with their children at the local firehouse.

It doesn't feel real. I dig for digital photos of my kids at that age to make it hurt just a fraction of the way it must be hurting those parents. I see a picture of my oldest son. He most probably has Asperger’s , a version of Autism that was not named until 1992 when he was four. I think about the shooter, mistakenly identified as a twenty four year old male. The age, the lack of empathy, the similarity to other, recent spree shootings and my unwished for knowledge of thought disorders make me feel colder. I know what may be revealed in the following days.

I think about my sister, a kindergarden teacher in nearby Waterbury. I don’t expect to hear from her as she is at her school. I wonder if she knows about what has happened and if she knew any of the adults. As the day moves on I answer Facebook posts and messages from mutual friends and relatives who are worried about her. I know instinctively that she is not hurt physically but when night falls and I haven’t yet heard from her, I know that her hurt is emotional. She was friends with the school’s slain principal. Her late night text confirms that it was a “rough” day.

Our Christmas still doesn't exist. That didn't change. What did change was my anguish over it. Nothing can compare to what these families will face over the remainder of this holiday season or what they will feel each time they look at photos of their lost ones … at any age. 

Tonight my kids and I will decorate the outside of the house.

The Inability to Say "No"

Yeah. This is me. I know why I can’t say “no” to my kids. Don’t get me wrong – I SAY it often but mostly I end up saying “yes” to avoid any prolonged ugliness. Some would call it “caving”. I call it “picking my battles”.

I have no problem saying “no” to telemarketers, door-to-door lawn chemical companies and traveling missionaries. I crack-up when my kids think I’m being rude to solicitors. Just once I want to put it in perspective for them. “Okay. We will get the lawn care services being offered by the cool looking guy in the cowboy hat and you can spend your summer watching from inside because you can’t go play in the now chemical-laden lawn and all of the summer drama camp money went to pay for this new form of entertainment. By the way, you do realize that it won’t be the cool guy in the cowboy hat fixing the lawn – right?”

Saying “no” to certain other adults is harder though. I really enjoy volunteering my time to community or school endeavors. Promoting and maintaining the arts for our kids is especially close to my heart. It seems downright selfish to withhold my ability to paint a set or a face. (I am particularly skilled at vampires, zombies and frogs.) Only time constraints and physical inability inhibit my involvement. Well, there was that one time when I had a strong personality clash with a certain director but even then, I knew that my continued involvement would not be beneficial to the play. And even then I was riddled with guilt enough to help with make-up for every performance.

But there is always that one person that it is impossible to say “no” to. It is the person who gives so much of themselves that to say “no” to them would put you squarely in the ugly step-sister/Madoff/King John realm. I would like to claim that she is a master manipulator but no – I put myself squarely in the path of her do-gooding.

For the next two weeks we are into what I call the “hell weeks” prior to a middle school production set in the 1920’s. My friend, (and I think I can call her that now since we bonded over the brown vs. black painting of a speakeasy platform and the make-up & costume transitions of numerous costermongers to Ascot attendees back to costermongers), is energetically flitting from one rehearsal to another. It amazes me how she so graciously handles the mysterious vanishing parent pool that to came to the original parent play meeting then – poof – are gone. But those of us that remain, in a secondary way, share in this crunch time and the pressure can manifest itself in odd ways.

Last night I had a dream. Generally I don’t remember my dreams and if I do – their meaning is pretty transparent. In this dream, a group of us were on a school bus and my friend turns to me and asks me, in her “it’s-okay-to-say-no-to-this-but-you-will-feel-like-crap-about-yourself-if-you-do” tone, if I will just help her out with some music event. She just needs a few people to fill out a little number that is kinda weak and needs some rhythm guitar in the back ground. Of course I agree. I remind her that I don’t play guitar. S’okay. We’ll get there early and I can get together with so & so who can get me up to speed. The thing is we need to get off that bus, run to her house, change into formal wear and get to the venue as this event happens to be that night. The bus drops us at some house I’ve never been to before and I am escorted to a closet filled with all sorts of showy clothes where I spend an inordinate amount of time on footwear buckles then rush back to the school bus.

Along the way to the event, the bus stops to pick up an unusual array of people. We get the local supermarket cashiers, my high school boyfriend whom I haven’t seen in over 20 years and Hoda and Kathie Lee. Goody. Comic relief. I’m gonna need it because just then I look down and realize that I am wearing Ga Ga-esque black leather Daisy Dukes, over-the-knee boots and a billowy, transparent black poet shirt with a chartreuse green bra under it. I think my hair may match the bra but there is no mirror handy for me to confirm this – just a gut feeling.

As I de-bus, my kids are there waiting for me. My philosophical oldest son is kindly saying something about finding my “inner alter ego” being cool at my age. My oldest daughter is shrieking, “Mom?! What?! Mom!?” and laughing hysterically. Only a mortified college student can do these both – like - simultaneously. (Her alarm is genuine as she had previously dubbed me her “little monochromatic mom” in high school once she got taller than me.) My ‘tween daughter is nervously wringing her hands not knowing if she should join in the circus revelry as any normal kid would want to do or mimic her older sister’s sophisticated, yet affectionate, disdain. My 11 year old son is wandering around looking for his friends so they can partake of their own form of entertainment which will probably involve ping pong balls, aluminum foil and lighters. But I can’t focus on my children’s reactions. I am busy looking to follow Hoda and Kathie Lee because I don’t really care what day of the week it is; I’m going to want some of whatever they are having – or at the very least – a sympathy make-over.

In my dream we all stream into an auditorium. There is my friend – decked out in an elegant evening gown. I am just starting to hate her but she rushes over to me saying; “It’s okay. It will all work out. It always comes together. Let’s go find so & so for your music. Did you bring any duct tape?” We find so & so and my friend flits off to be one of the other twenty places she needs to be right then. So & so looks at me with disdain and hands me a book of sheet music. Uh oh. Not having actually learned how to play an instrument, I really had no need to learn to read music.

Yes! I’m awake! Covered in sweat - but awake. Whew. Note to self: Make sure the electric blanket is not set at #6 in mid-May no matter how chilly and damp it is outside. I’d better get finishing the faux brick walls for the current set. I’ll let you know if they develop into head banging or wailing walls. Could go either way…

Budding artist?

Riley's lastest assemblage installation is...installed. Actually, it's on the fireplace mantle right now but that's only until the nutcracker collection displaces it - AFTER Thanksgiving - when all self-respecting Christmas decorations are displayed - not before. (But that issue is for another blog entry.)

The newest tool in Riley's creative bag of tricks is a hot glue gun. Thanks Mrs.P. Having constructed a popsicle stick and hot glue long house in the classroom - he is an expert hot gluer. (glueist?) As with many things with Riley; what is mine is his and that's the way of my hot glue gun. His former, frequent use of Christmas lights is still in play but to a lesser degree. I expect that might change when the holiday decoration totes are brought up from the basement and he is faced, once again, with a tangled ball of nirvana at his feet. But until then, please enjoy his latest table top creations.

Okay, I will admit that this next one scared me at first. So much so that I didn't ask it's title. But still - pretty cool. Note the artistic use of thumb tacks and paper clips.

Right now he is working on another that involves a strobe light and a stage curtain that he has rigged to draw open and closed. Photos to follow.

Eccentric Etsians

I have just recently posted my fourth Etsy shop. (It's the fifth one I've created if you count the now defunk Plunk Soap but that's a whole other entry.) With each shop it seemed like I spent more time researching than actually building B. Noel Bijoux.

(shameless plug: http://www.bnoelbijoux.etsy.com/bijoux.etsy.com/ )

I have not tried selling jewelry online before and I felt that it had it's own separate set of rules so I just had to pop into a few fellow Etsian's stores. Needless to say, I found good and bad photos, some over priced and some under priced, detailed descriptions and inadequate descriptions... I also found myself deviating from my jewelry retailing research to follow odd tangents that that were sparked by front page features, "favorite items" of those whose work I liked and the "recently listed" cubes that scroll, cycle and pop up continuously 2/3rds of the way down the front page. Whoever thought of THAT knows the inner mind of an ADD artist cruising Etsy...avoiding laundry...the dishwasher...the mailbox... So I decided to showcase a few of my more unique finds here - out loud - so my meandering was not completely wasted time.

Some of my friends and family thought that this piece was just "not right" when I shared it with them on Facebook. But I will state for the record - I think I want one. It's called a "Baby Limb Hooktastic". Honsestly - it's one of this Auckland artist's milder pieces. To see more go to http://www.luxfordst.etsy.com/ and the "Pony Butt Broach" may still be available.

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Who doesn't look at this image and think "Hey! I think I know those guys!" Okay, my family was really big on ancestral potraits and - swear to gosh - there is some resemblance to our Pennsylvania branch.

And then I saw this one. I am choosing to share it though I will refrain from sharing all of the Republican jokes I had prepared to go along with it. Don't let the shop name scare you. It's worth the trip to:http://www.grandolebestiary.etsy.com/

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Even my younger kids are getting a bit old for the Easter Bunny but if they weren't - I would show them this picture and tell them that this is what he really looks like. The artist of this item described it as "Baby Hare Fluffa". She refers to it as a "he" but after seeing it on my Facebook posting, my sister-in-law believes that it is too pretty so it must really be a girl. Either way, you probably shouldn't shoo it off your porch if it shows up there. Especially since, (if you're reading this in the US), it came all the way from Scotland. http://www.dragonhouseofyuen.etsy.com/

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I really like most kinds of soap but have never especially wanted to smell like chocolate or coffee or even bananas. But this soap - yes - it's soap - took it to a whole new level. So wrap it up and take it to Easter dinner with the fam and wait for the inevitable "Why are the deviled eggs in the john?" Like bacon soap? Go to: http://www.sunbasilgarden.etsy.com/

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I look at this tile and think "What is the artist trying to express? What is the backstory to this remarkable piece? Can we interpret the pain of the lizard losing it's tail as sybiotic to the artist's pain?". I think those things and so much, much more.

I look at this tile and ask myself "Where the hell is the rest of the fish?"

Bet we can find it at: http://www.gretchenkramp.etsy.com/

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This artist has either spent too much time alone - or works in an office cubicle. But can't you relate to this sculpture? I can. Since childhood, I have ALWAYS wanted to to this! (Or maybe I just dreamt that...) Check out this Etsy shop to see more from: http://www.kenjio.etsy.com/

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I chose to leave out the Wax Dipped Stuffed Animal Air Freshener. If I had included it, I might have mentioned something about it's likeness to a toilet dunked toy that would constantly cause you to say "No, honey. That one is NOT a toy. It just looks like a toy. Yes - it looks just like the ones YOU put in the potty." Apparently, to re-freshen it's room scenting ability, you just "hit" it with a blowdryer. All in all - too violent, painful and unsanitary to be included here.

To end this blog post on a somewhat Easter/Spring theme, I wanted to share one more sculpture from Kenjio. It's recycled too. The artist states very clearly that it is made from "clay and a thrown away toy bird".

Where does it come from?

Riley had another creative burst in the middle of his bedroom. I think I can let the pictures speak for themselves but what you need to remember it that each "installation" is musically accompanied. This one featured "Fireflies" by Owl City. There was also a band playing to an audience, a cat on a trapeze and a baseball player swinging a bat. Enjoy.

To answer the question posed by the title of this post - all over the house, garage, basement and the neighbors houses if they aren't careful.