I have a kid who loves musicals. The schadenfreude that my friends have over this is something just short of proper evil. I fell asleep at Phantom of the Opera. I read a book during Jesus Christ Superstar, and I created an entire study/life timetable during The Boyfriend. The only musical that has ever really captured my full attention is Rocky Horror, and I guess that probably says more about me than the show.

Having a kid who loves musicals means that instead of spending our evenings seeing cool bands, shocking comedians and important movies, we see people prancing about the stage and singing things that they could easily just say, with songs that always end with a big ‘bomp’ (just in was you didn’t know that the song was ended).

Having a kid who loves musicals means that she is IN musicals as well. I have written before about the surprising magic that happens when you watch a group of actors bring a show to life- the frizty energy backstage before the curtain raise, the almost rapturous delight as they take their final bows. Humans humaning towards a common goal is always an honour to experience, and acting is no exception.

Having a kid who loves musicals of course means that we are going to see Hamilton. On paper it sounds strange and yes, I had to initially watch it with an IMBD blow by blow explanation of the plot and the history, but once you understand what the heck is going on, and that there are double castings (so actors can get killed off and come back as someone else), it is strangely compelling. We are going in August, so as is my wont, I’m learning the songs. And they are earworms.

Slogans, song lyrics and advertising jingles have always been my crack. I have a brain that is constantly talking to itself, arguing, defining and rejecting ideas it doesn’t like, so to penetrate the membrane and get inside, things often have to find the back way in. Which is what song lyrics do. I don’t take much notice of the music, but I suspect it has a Trojan horse effect for me, hiding the punch of the pop, until it explodes into my limbic system- that place where emotions all hang out together.

Hamilton has weasled its way in. Lin-Manuel Miranda, that clever, clever writer has woven riffs of songs from my early twenties with new lyrics, making old music and even older stories into a fresh new fabric. The familiar snippets of tunes just outside my conscious reach means that I allow the next layer to be implanted. Its entirely tricksy and almost the G-word. If not genius, it’s definitely inspired.

Three phrases have wormed my ear most significantly: The world turned upside down. I’m not throwing away my shot. You will never be satisfied, I will never be satisfied.

The world turned upside down: over and over again, in this post-2020 year, I’ve found reason after reason to sing these three lines.

I’m not throwing away my shot: I’ve used that more times than I care to admit, noticing moments of joy that I would usually rush past. Taking opportunities I might usually squander. Living more. Being more. Taking chances. Adding richness. Not throwing away any shots I have for being present.

You will never be satisfied, I will never be satisfied: this one’s the kicker. Of all the lyrics in all the songs (and there’s more than twenty of them) this one is the one that gets me every time. When is it ever going to be enough? Is there ever enough? Will I ever be enough? It’s the question that keeps me awake at night, enveloped in the love and warmth of an amazing family, home and life, and yet still wondering: is there more? Is there something else that I could be doing? Have I done enough?

So just as I suspected: musicals suck. They make you think all the thoughts and question all the things, getting in and under your skin until they end, or you end: BOMP.

What about you? Do you love musicals? Are you satisfied with what you’ve got?

…From The Ashers

Last week our kids were in a school play. When they initially put their names down last year, I groaned inwardly, all the while secretly hoping they would lose enthusiasm for the idea, and decide it wasn’t for them.

I could already guess what would be involved: after hours rehearsals, costume preparation (no, no, you cannot make me CRAFT), makeup on show days, parental attendance to the actual thing. For FOUR nights. And then the aftermath of exhausted kids who “are NOT tired” for a week. Probably resulting in an earlier than usual transfusion, for the one with the blood thing.

So possibly not my preference, truth be told. (Can you tell?)

I’d like to say that I’m a better Mum. That I’m the type that embraces everything that my children love, but I’m just not. I’m a bit shit, and I like best it when they like things that I like. Going to cafes, reading on the couch in my trakkies, rollerskating, sitting quietly on the beach looking at the waves and daydreaming. (Which is basically never. Of course the little weirdos don’t like any of those things.)

So, as they say, the show must go on, and the entity that is “The Primary School Musical” gathered its own momentum, and dragged me along with it. I purchased craft-like objects on Etsy and got a glue gun. I took kids to rehearsals on holidays. I bought a shade of foundation that I will shortly return to the Oompa Loompas. I learnt how to tease hair without screaming in the child’s face, “I am trying my best not to hurt you, but this must be done, the piece of paper says so, and I hate it too. Stupid play. Stupid costumes.” *

I personally grew up doing sport, and as such, kept a wide berth of the drama-nerds. You know who I mean. The kids who got called Butterfingers and Mamma’s Boy. The kids who couldn’t play softball or cricket, and always looked like they were someplace else when I signalled to the pitcher that it was ON and that we all needed to be a team. The kids who were in some nonsense thing called ‘the play’. The only play I was interested in was what was going on at home-plate. I didn’t get the drama kids. Nor they me.

I now had drama kids.

And believe me, there were dramas. Between hair and makeup and late nights and a very cold theatre, there were dramas. And that’s just for the adults. (Did I mention it went for FOUR NIGHTS?). But in the spirit of all things social media-y, I only posted the smiling pics of us all sharing beautiful times. I did not post my contorted maw, yelling at children to sit still whilst I brushed the knots out of stage-hair at 10pm. I did not post children crying from being accused of being tired and unreasonable, when they “clearly” were not. I did not post the stringy hot glue getting all over my hands and bench tops when I tried to glue the stupid felt leaves to the costume. I did not post the kid crying with nerves and excitement on opening night, saying they didn’t want to be in the play any more, and me saying “Don’t you dare drop a tear on your cheek, and ruin that make-up.”

No, I posted the best of. Because that is what we do.

The other thing we do, is we surrender to the process. The Primary School Musical has a way of drawing you in, and even if you struggle to stay away from this drama-nerdism, you are engulfed. And if you let yourself, you find out some things.

When you drop the kids to the Green Room, there is an energy that erases all of the previous turmoil. Children are bounding about like big-eyed puppies at the playground and doing the kid version of sniffing each others nether regions. They are full.

Before the show starts, the children do a warm-up song, and if you spy through the crack in the door, you can see them singing as if one, faces as beatific as when they are asleep. It can stop time, and take your breath away.

During the play, they support each other in ways you wouldn’t imagine. They gently help out those who have been overcome by nerves and misplaced lines. They laugh with each other, not at each other at the various foibles, realising that they are all together in this.

After the play, they gather together to smile and congratulate themselves and each other in a completely unselfconscious way. They get changed in the same room, the younger children admire the older ones as deity, and the older ones know the small ones by name, and say things like, “Good job Coco, see you tomorrow.” The small ones then walk a little taller.

On the final night, just before opening, the musical director gives his last address, and it’s similar to a coach on grand final day. He congratulates and thanks them for their endeavours so far, and spurs them on to achieve greatness at this finale. But even more, he reminds them of the beauty of art and song, and encourages them to play big. He tells them a secret that will stay with them forever: that if they give their all, then that effort will be reflected back to them in the faces of the audience. He points to his heart, and tells them that this is what they will touch.

And they do.

And it does.

*This may not be true. Only the walls (and my neighbours) will know for sure.

…From The Ashers