Saturday, August 12, 2006

Motherhood turns you into a stage director

Motherhood has turned me into a stage director. I really could use a megaphone for all the directions I have to holler to my “actors” during our outings. (And you know actors – so temperamental).

“Move to the left. The left. Your other left!”

“Hold my hand. I said hold my hand. Hold my hand now!

Little actors can be so difficult. They're so needy. Before we begin each scene (and it really often is a scene), we rehearse a little.

“You can push the cart at the grocery store, but only if you stay out of the other shoppers' way.”
“Let me know immediately if you have to use the potty so we can find where it is in time.”

And no matter how much we review, they're always forgetting their lines.

“What do we say? I said what do we say? Tell the lady thank you. Tell her thank you right now or you're going to have to give the lollipop back.”

“Answer you're YiaYia when she speaks to you. And look at her when you speak.”

What I'd really like is a little device (small like an iPod but with a speaker so that my kids can hear it) programmed with background music to enhance the drama of my words (like the way the music would swell on the former NBC drama The West Wing when President Josiah Bartlet would say something particularly profound, and his loyal staffers would swoon. That's the kind of reaction I want.)

Grocery shopping presents my biggest directorial challenge.

My 8-year-old is still grappling with how his body moves through space. It's often moving into other bodies' spaces.

“Stay to the right of the cart. Closer to the cart. Someone is trying to get by.”

“Excuse me. Say excuse me.”

“Keep moving forward you two. We're walking. We're walking.”

Directing the children around the cart as we push through the check out line is particularly tricky. They're both in much too big of a hurry to load everything onto the conveyor belt.

“No, kids. Let me handle the eggs!”

My 8-year-old is making progress with understanding the my sorting order on the conveyor belt.

“Keep the frozen foods together so they end up in the same bag.”

“Keep the breads together. Don't load heavy things next to the soft stuff.”

Then, as most of the groceries end up out of the cart and onto the belt, its time to maneuver the children from the back of the cart to the front.

I tell my 3-year-old to come first. “Squeeze between the cart and the candy shelves. No, you can't have any. Keep coming, keep coming. Good. Now stay there. Don't move. I said don't move.”

Then I direct my 8-year-old through, but not before I catch my 3-year-old wandering off.

“I said don't move!” Then to my son, “ Keep coming. Keep coming. Now both of you stay. I said stay. Stop making the automatic doors open. We're almost done here. We're almost done, right? If you need a price check, just forget it. I don't need it.”

Now the kids are on one side of the cart, next to an ever-opening door. I'm on the other side and I'm trapped there between the registers until the clerk is finished with my order. I have to muster all my directorial skills to keep the kids in the store and out of other shoppers' way using only my voice.

“Stand closer to the cart. Closer. See that man there? Let him by. I said move closer to the cart so that he can get by. Say excuse me.”

Finally, we're out of there, and into our most frightening scene: the parking lot. Cars are moving slowly, erratically past the the doors, crawling up and down the aisles, backing in and out of spots. And for added drama, it's raining. Both my hands are occupied by the heavy cart. The children are trying to open their umbrellas. The 4-year-old succeeds easily. The 8-year-old, not so much.

“Pull the Velcro strap. Pull the strap. The sticky part. That's the Velcro. Now push the button. Push the button. Oh, give it to me.”

Then it's Action! I hold the cart's handlebar with one hand, leaning into it with my forearm so that I can hold my 4-year-old's hand with the other.

“Stay close to me. You're too small for the cars to see you.”

By the time we make it the car intact, children belted in, groceries stowed in the hatch, I'm ready for my Tony Award.