Even as a work-at-home mother, I’m amazed at how little extra time I have for things that at-home mothers are supposed to do — help with the Brownie troop, bake cupcakes for the school party, whatever. But every so often the guilt becomes overwhelming, and I volunteer to do something like today: Drive to and help chaperone a class visit to the theatuh, in this case a production of “Annie Get Your Gun.”
A middle-school production of “Annie Get Your Gun.”
The things we do for our children.
Actually, it was quite an accomplishment — I don’t think they cut a line. It went a full two hours, quite a lot of play for sixth, seventh and eighth-graders to tackle, never mind all the singing involved. And they did it well. As I told the student teacher who rode with us, “I could almost forget the leading man in a romantic musical comedy wasn’t old enough to shave.”
Our junior-high play was “Our Town.” Requirements: A cute couple to play Emily and George, the mature kid to pull on his suspenders as the stage manager, and various others to flesh out Grover’s Corners. No singing.
I used to be in awe of people who could ante up the guts to get up on stage and sing “Anything You Can Do.” After watching “American Idol” audition shows, I’m in awe of the people whose job it is to tell the also-rans that they just don’t measure up. Why do so many of these people leave saying, “You’re going to be buying my CD someday, Simon! You jerk!” Who told them they could sing? And they still believe it, after they’ve caterwauled their way through some perfectly harmless song. All that self-affirmation we’ve been doing with young people? Mistake.