Friday, February 29, 2008
DRAMA
1) Picture This...
a Woman, a Boy, and a Baby get off a bus and go into a shop. The Woman doesn’t normally take the Boy into shops. She knows about his penchant for hiding in stockrooms, stripping cans and packets off shelves, and performing various other inventive acts of mischief. She knows that he does things in shops he does nowhere else - embarrassing things, things that make other parents roll their eyes and shake their heads, things that make store-keepers tremble. The Boy seems to believe that because the Woman has engaged in the careless and cruel act of taking the Boy shopping in the first place, all terms of the Mother-Son contract are temporarily invalid, those terms being chiefly that given appropriate levels of glaring, squeezing, and scolding, the Son will more or less conform to accepted standards of moderately annoying behavior (such as, but not limited to, whining, poking, fidgeting, and suggestions for sugar-based bribery.)
Not this Boy. This Boy waits until the 4 or 5 critical foodstuffs have been deposited on the counter (via an elaborate and laborious “Can you find Mama the eggs? What a helpful Boy!” game), and the Woman has just handed over her credit card to the Clerk, and then he suddenly dashes out of the shop and runs up the street at a dead-sprint. “Has he gone far?” the Woman asks the Clerk, who has a better vantage point through the plate glass window. “Oh yeah. He’s going for it,” the Clerk replies. The Woman snatches her card and her foodstuffs (sans sack) and runs higgledy-piggeldy after the Boy, eggs clutched between elbow and Baby Bjorn, milk jug dangling precariously from one finger, trying desperately to keep her eyes trained on the Boy (who is now a good 100 yards ahead of her) without dropping anything or knocking anyone over on the crowded side-walk.
With a quick glance over his shoulder, the Boy veers sharply to the left and ducks into a Chinese Restaurant. “Perfect!” thinks the Woman. “He’s cornered and at least not going to run into traffic.” She decides that she’ll play it cool, saunter right by the restaurant (which also has a plate-glass window), and let him see that she’s continuing on her way, unruffled by his absence. But as she passes the window, she sees a Cook with his hand on the Boy’s shoulder, clearly quizzing him about his solo status, and the Boy smugly pointing out the window at her. The Cook brings the Boy out onto the street with a “Be careful! Stay close to your Mama!” and returns to the restaurant. The Boy waits until the door has closed and then turns around and takes off at a run again – this time in the opposite direction.
“I’m going home!” the Woman shouts at the Boy’s retreating back. “See ya later!” And making good on her bluff, she turns her back on the Boy and begins to walk in the direction of home. Curious, he follows, eventually catching up with her and giving her that “Are you mad yet?” side-ways smile he’s perfected so well in recent weeks. The Woman walks in silence for a moment, and then offers (with utter calm) “You won’t be watching any television when we get home.” The Boy blanches. What?! No wind-down pre-dinner television hour? “No way!” shouts the Boy. “I’m sorry,” explains the Woman with polite magnaminity, “but you know you are not allowed to run away from me in stores. That’s very dangerous for you and very scary for me. You could get lost and I wouldn’t know where you were.” “But what about my warning?” asks the Boy, referring to the standard practice of offering a “If you do that again, then I’m going to…” before meting out punishments. “Nope,” replies the Woman blithely, “No TV. You know you aren’t allowed to hide from me. No TV will help you remember that next time.”
And cue….Hysteria…on the 12 minute walk home, the Boy gushes an ocean of crocodile tears, complete with melodramatic sobbing. His performance is so over-the-top, the Woman is just dying to run into a friend on the road or meet someone come out of their house to see what all the fuss is about, so she can share the joke. It is all the Woman can do to make it back to her house without completely splitting a gut and laughing in the Boy’s face. He keeps up his dramatic tantrum all the way up to the door of their 3rd floor flat, through the process of removing coat and shoes, and into the living room, whereupon he spots an abandoned sheet of bubble-wrap and immediately drops his act like a cheap clown-nose in favor of popping bubbles. Television is not referred to again for the rest of the evening, and the Boy and the Woman spend a pleasant hour before dinner playing with toy cars on the carpet.
Score one for Mama!
2) On Wednesday morning at 9am...
I had just climbed back into my cozy bed to nurse Miss V (after making oatmeal, dressing Mr. G, dispensing vitamins, enforcing peeing and toothbrushing, packing the spare “just-in-case” clothes and the after-school snack into the back-pack, and putting on his shoes and coat), when Lord Limescale asked me “Where’s the scooter?”
Gman has one of the Mini-Micro scooters (the toddler version of the Razer) that are ubiquitous on the cheery streets of Chiswick. You really never meet a child over 2-1/2 in the outdoor world anymore who isn’t attached to one of these 3-wheeled wonders. They stream-line and fun-ify the process of getting from here to there for kids who are post-stroller but not quite up to walking long distances. The scooter was the “big present” of birthday #3, and it is one of Gman’s prize possessions.
So Lord Limescale’s question elicited an instant jolt of adrenaline, because I had absolutely no idea where the scooter was. My mind was a total blank. I remembered leaving school with it the day before, and then…and then…had I left it on the bus?! The sidewalk?! In a shop?! Where was the @%&! scooter? I wracked my brains for several minutes until I remembered that Gman had led me on a merry chase out of a shop and up the high street the day before, and I realized that I must have abandoned the scooter somewhere along the way in order to pursue him.
And cue…Cursing…I jumped out of bed and proceeded to speed through the morning routine so I could drag my butt (and Miss V’s) back up to the high street in search of the scooter. I found the damn thing (thank my lucky stars). But despite my successful recovery mission, I was left with an uneasy feeling for the rest of the day. Because this memory lapse is not my first. Lately I have been simply unable to retain data in the normal way. People phone at an inconvenient moment, and I say I’ll phone right back. I usually remember to do this 3 or 4 days later. I find myself entering rooms and wondering what I’ve come for, leaving, only to remember, and then returning, only to forget again. I’ve missed doctor’s appointments, stood up friends for coffee, failed to pay really overdue bills, and left key items such as “milk and bread” off the shopping list.
I know what my problem is. It’s simple. I’m feeding another human being, and my brain has shut down all non-essential decks (ala Star Trek) in order to conserve energy for the supremely important task of feeding Miss V’s chub (you should see her thighs, they’re really getting Sumo-like). But because I don’t have the kind of sleep deprivation I did the first time around, I keep forgetting that I can’t function like a normal person. During the first few months of Gman’s life, I felt like crap all the time, so I wasn’t surprised when I screwed up ordinary tasks. But I feel pretty okay this time around, so I keep being caught-off guard by my swiss-cheese brain. I think I should make my own warning label:
3) After nearly a year...
of stressing and strategizing, wishing and worrying, and then finally giving up, I’m back in the saddle again – I’m directing a play. It’s a one-act with one actor to be performed for one night only at the theatre at the end of my road, but nonetheless, it is a bonafide piece of art and I’m gonna make it. I had auditions this week (in my living room with a baby in my lap), and it was lovely to be in a room with actors again. Yes, I know that I bad-mouthed actors in one of my recent posts, but actually I kind of like them. They care so much. They try so hard. They really want to be good.
Like most other things, directing is like riding a bicycle. You think you'll forget how to do it, but you don't. Like a few things, not doing it for awhile actually makes you better at it. At least I think it does. We'll see what I think when rehearsals start and the drama in my life is taking place in a theatre rather than in the small bodies around me.
Be well.
1) Picture This...
a Woman, a Boy, and a Baby get off a bus and go into a shop. The Woman doesn’t normally take the Boy into shops. She knows about his penchant for hiding in stockrooms, stripping cans and packets off shelves, and performing various other inventive acts of mischief. She knows that he does things in shops he does nowhere else - embarrassing things, things that make other parents roll their eyes and shake their heads, things that make store-keepers tremble. The Boy seems to believe that because the Woman has engaged in the careless and cruel act of taking the Boy shopping in the first place, all terms of the Mother-Son contract are temporarily invalid, those terms being chiefly that given appropriate levels of glaring, squeezing, and scolding, the Son will more or less conform to accepted standards of moderately annoying behavior (such as, but not limited to, whining, poking, fidgeting, and suggestions for sugar-based bribery.)
Not this Boy. This Boy waits until the 4 or 5 critical foodstuffs have been deposited on the counter (via an elaborate and laborious “Can you find Mama the eggs? What a helpful Boy!” game), and the Woman has just handed over her credit card to the Clerk, and then he suddenly dashes out of the shop and runs up the street at a dead-sprint. “Has he gone far?” the Woman asks the Clerk, who has a better vantage point through the plate glass window. “Oh yeah. He’s going for it,” the Clerk replies. The Woman snatches her card and her foodstuffs (sans sack) and runs higgledy-piggeldy after the Boy, eggs clutched between elbow and Baby Bjorn, milk jug dangling precariously from one finger, trying desperately to keep her eyes trained on the Boy (who is now a good 100 yards ahead of her) without dropping anything or knocking anyone over on the crowded side-walk.
With a quick glance over his shoulder, the Boy veers sharply to the left and ducks into a Chinese Restaurant. “Perfect!” thinks the Woman. “He’s cornered and at least not going to run into traffic.” She decides that she’ll play it cool, saunter right by the restaurant (which also has a plate-glass window), and let him see that she’s continuing on her way, unruffled by his absence. But as she passes the window, she sees a Cook with his hand on the Boy’s shoulder, clearly quizzing him about his solo status, and the Boy smugly pointing out the window at her. The Cook brings the Boy out onto the street with a “Be careful! Stay close to your Mama!” and returns to the restaurant. The Boy waits until the door has closed and then turns around and takes off at a run again – this time in the opposite direction.
“I’m going home!” the Woman shouts at the Boy’s retreating back. “See ya later!” And making good on her bluff, she turns her back on the Boy and begins to walk in the direction of home. Curious, he follows, eventually catching up with her and giving her that “Are you mad yet?” side-ways smile he’s perfected so well in recent weeks. The Woman walks in silence for a moment, and then offers (with utter calm) “You won’t be watching any television when we get home.” The Boy blanches. What?! No wind-down pre-dinner television hour? “No way!” shouts the Boy. “I’m sorry,” explains the Woman with polite magnaminity, “but you know you are not allowed to run away from me in stores. That’s very dangerous for you and very scary for me. You could get lost and I wouldn’t know where you were.” “But what about my warning?” asks the Boy, referring to the standard practice of offering a “If you do that again, then I’m going to…” before meting out punishments. “Nope,” replies the Woman blithely, “No TV. You know you aren’t allowed to hide from me. No TV will help you remember that next time.”
And cue….Hysteria…on the 12 minute walk home, the Boy gushes an ocean of crocodile tears, complete with melodramatic sobbing. His performance is so over-the-top, the Woman is just dying to run into a friend on the road or meet someone come out of their house to see what all the fuss is about, so she can share the joke. It is all the Woman can do to make it back to her house without completely splitting a gut and laughing in the Boy’s face. He keeps up his dramatic tantrum all the way up to the door of their 3rd floor flat, through the process of removing coat and shoes, and into the living room, whereupon he spots an abandoned sheet of bubble-wrap and immediately drops his act like a cheap clown-nose in favor of popping bubbles. Television is not referred to again for the rest of the evening, and the Boy and the Woman spend a pleasant hour before dinner playing with toy cars on the carpet.
Score one for Mama!
2) On Wednesday morning at 9am...
I had just climbed back into my cozy bed to nurse Miss V (after making oatmeal, dressing Mr. G, dispensing vitamins, enforcing peeing and toothbrushing, packing the spare “just-in-case” clothes and the after-school snack into the back-pack, and putting on his shoes and coat), when Lord Limescale asked me “Where’s the scooter?”
Gman has one of the Mini-Micro scooters (the toddler version of the Razer) that are ubiquitous on the cheery streets of Chiswick. You really never meet a child over 2-1/2 in the outdoor world anymore who isn’t attached to one of these 3-wheeled wonders. They stream-line and fun-ify the process of getting from here to there for kids who are post-stroller but not quite up to walking long distances. The scooter was the “big present” of birthday #3, and it is one of Gman’s prize possessions.
So Lord Limescale’s question elicited an instant jolt of adrenaline, because I had absolutely no idea where the scooter was. My mind was a total blank. I remembered leaving school with it the day before, and then…and then…had I left it on the bus?! The sidewalk?! In a shop?! Where was the @%&! scooter? I wracked my brains for several minutes until I remembered that Gman had led me on a merry chase out of a shop and up the high street the day before, and I realized that I must have abandoned the scooter somewhere along the way in order to pursue him.
And cue…Cursing…I jumped out of bed and proceeded to speed through the morning routine so I could drag my butt (and Miss V’s) back up to the high street in search of the scooter. I found the damn thing (thank my lucky stars). But despite my successful recovery mission, I was left with an uneasy feeling for the rest of the day. Because this memory lapse is not my first. Lately I have been simply unable to retain data in the normal way. People phone at an inconvenient moment, and I say I’ll phone right back. I usually remember to do this 3 or 4 days later. I find myself entering rooms and wondering what I’ve come for, leaving, only to remember, and then returning, only to forget again. I’ve missed doctor’s appointments, stood up friends for coffee, failed to pay really overdue bills, and left key items such as “milk and bread” off the shopping list.
I know what my problem is. It’s simple. I’m feeding another human being, and my brain has shut down all non-essential decks (ala Star Trek) in order to conserve energy for the supremely important task of feeding Miss V’s chub (you should see her thighs, they’re really getting Sumo-like). But because I don’t have the kind of sleep deprivation I did the first time around, I keep forgetting that I can’t function like a normal person. During the first few months of Gman’s life, I felt like crap all the time, so I wasn’t surprised when I screwed up ordinary tasks. But I feel pretty okay this time around, so I keep being caught-off guard by my swiss-cheese brain. I think I should make my own warning label:
Caution! Nursing Mother! Do not expect Punctuality, Accuracy or Attentiveness!
3) After nearly a year...
of stressing and strategizing, wishing and worrying, and then finally giving up, I’m back in the saddle again – I’m directing a play. It’s a one-act with one actor to be performed for one night only at the theatre at the end of my road, but nonetheless, it is a bonafide piece of art and I’m gonna make it. I had auditions this week (in my living room with a baby in my lap), and it was lovely to be in a room with actors again. Yes, I know that I bad-mouthed actors in one of my recent posts, but actually I kind of like them. They care so much. They try so hard. They really want to be good.
Like most other things, directing is like riding a bicycle. You think you'll forget how to do it, but you don't. Like a few things, not doing it for awhile actually makes you better at it. At least I think it does. We'll see what I think when rehearsals start and the drama in my life is taking place in a theatre rather than in the small bodies around me.
Be well.
Labels: Creative Process, Directing, Drama, Mamahood
