Play

The series of events that had to fall into place perfectly for me to attend Elijah’s school play would make Robert Ludlum shake his head in disbelief. I planned my escape weeks in advance. By not only blocking out my calendar, but also threatening the guy who always seems to schedule things over my calendar blocks. My disguise of “guy running down to get coffee” was perfect. I didn’t end up using my chloroform and handkerchief combo, but it was in my trench coat just in case.

I raced home as fast as my sensible, fuel efficient auto would allow and then spent 45 minutes in the parking lot of Eli’s school waiting for the play to begin. Because dad loves to be early.

In the week leading up to the play, I attempted to give Eli a few stage freight pep talks. But it’s hard to comfort a kid who couldn’t care less.

The future Laurence Olivier said, “If I screw up, no on in the audience will know. If I forget my lines, I’ll just make them up.”

The concept of the play was brilliant. The acting troop collected the written accounts of first through fourth grader’s dreams and then acted them exactly out as written. They were hysterical and scary and delightfully poorly written.

Eli’s part was about a kid who dreamt about escaping a big blue monster in a dish washing machine. I’m not sure who would find it more interesting, Freud or DCSF.

And he was the best.

I am not saying this because he is my son and I love him. He was objectively the best actor. The other kids performed their lines well and hit their marks, but Eli WAS that kid who escaped the blue monster in the dish washing machine.

The crowd roared when he delivered his lines. I’m fairly sure two people were hospitalized for hyperventilation. At least seventeen moms fainted. And somewhere in Hollywood, Brad Pitt sensed he should probably retire.

After the play, we all went home and ate leftover chicken, the meal of every great thespian. I think Eli was proud of himself. At least enough to ask if he could take the following day off.