Honing a Hobby

I'm really no different than other parents.  I just want best for my kids. 

I want Kevin to have all the advantages he needs to succeed in life.  

Sure, he has a lot of toys and is well dressed.  But he really hasn't been involved in the arts since his starring role in Anything Goes. 

I worry about his lack of intellectual stimulation. 

I suppose I should be placated by his focus.  He does have incredible stamina.  (God knows his sisters couldn't stay on task for half as long Kevin when it comes to chasing balls.)

But aside from dropping Busy Bones on the floor, squeaking his ball, and barking at cats, birds and squirrels, Kevin really has no hobbies.  

Research has found that kids who have a hobby are generally healthier, both emotionally and physically, than those whose main activities include watching TV and playing video games.  And squeaking toy balls.

To that end, I decided to teach Kevin how to play the piano. 

He approached the piano with curiosity, carefully studying the music.  I gave him a quick lesson in music theory.  We started out with O Sole Mio, in the key of C.  

He listened intently as I explained the time signature, and how quarter notes get one beat.

And he began to play!

 
Sure, he missed a couple notes, but it really wasn't bad for his first attempt.

In fact, at the risk of sounding like one of "those" parents, I think he's rather gifted.   

The Reluctant Turd

I probably shouldn't have taken Kevin for a walk right before the show, but I had my make-up on, my hair was done and we had 15 minutes before vocal warm-ups. What could possibly go wrong?

We were about 2 blocks from the theater when Kevin decided to poop.

He assumed "poop position" in the grass.  I waited patiently. Then he jumped out of the grass like he'd been standing in a fire ant hill and started running in a circle.

Uh-oh. 

Problem.

Kevin moved to the middle of the sidewalk and resumed his position.  I tried to be patient. Minutes passed. 

Nothing dropped.

Uh-oh.

I decided to lift his tail and take a peak.

Crap! (Literally.)

"Kevin-push it out!," I encouraged. I waited a few more minutes.  Nothing.

I took another look. He was giving birth to a reluctant turd.

All I could think about was the costumes. Three of the four people who hold him onstage are dressed entirely in white. This was serious! 

Plus the clock was ticking!

"We have vocal warm-ups in 5 minutes, Kevin!" I reminded him. He looked over his shoulder at me pathetically.

A man walking down the street stopped to look. "You can't rush him" he advised.  "Thank you," I said politely.

(and under my breath, "What are you, a stinkin' dog protologist?")

I took another look. It was so close to being delivered. All it needed was a little nudge.

Or some forceps.  

I considered using a stick, but reconsidered.  It couldn't be a messy delivery, with all those white costumes.  It had to be clean.

I reached in my pockets in desperation.  I found a Kleenex.

Score!  

I took a deep breath, lifted his tail one last time and removed the troublesome turd.

Kevin immediately started prancing back to the theater as if nothing had happened. He actually looked back at me as if to say, "Hurry up, we have vocal warm-ups in 3 minutes."

There I was, holding the leash in one hand and a Kleenex full of dog poop in the other.  I finally found a trash can and returned to the theater, a bit less composed than I had been at the start of the walk.

In contrast, Kevin was completely relaxed.

But most importantly, the costumes escaped completely unscathed.  

Go Fish Face

I've blogged before about my inability to keep a Poker face.

I'm afraid it's gotten worse.

Tonight I couldn't even keep a "Go-Fish" face.

If you have ever read my blog, you may have picked up on the fact that I have a rather goofy sense of humor.  Well, the closing scene of "Anything Goes" contains some outrageously goofy dialogue. (Right up my alley.) 

And that poses a problem for me.

You see, I am supposed to be a passenger aboard the U.S.S. American, an ocean liner traveling from New York to England in 1934.  And when *spoiler alert* Billy and Moon Face run onstage disguised as Chinese men and stop about 9 inches directly in front of me and say things like "No can marwy... Pwum Bwossom...Wittle Pwum Pwudding... etcewa...etcetwa..etcewta" I have a VEWRY difficult time staying in character.

Tonight was opening night, and for the first time Billy and Moon Face were wearing their doo-rags with braids going down their backs. 

I found it extremely funny.  

Giggle worthy.

I bit my tongue. I knew I had to retain my composure.  I had to think about something sobering...utterly mournful.  So I flashed back to all those (8...count'm, 8) unsuccessful high school cheerleading auditions.

OK.... I had my composure back. I could once again pass for a passenger aboard the U.S.S. American in 1934: one who was very confused about the antics happening right in front of her.

That's when I made my critical error.  I looked at the actor standing one person down from me. 

She was trying desperately to contain her own laughter to the point that she had tears running down her face. I heard her whisper to the guy on my left,  "Don't let Lou look at me."

I had to look. (It sounded like a dare.)

That's when I lost my "Go-Fish" face.

We were like Tim Conway and Harvey Korman on the Carol Burnett show.

I needed to compose myself!  We had a sold out house!!!!  I looked away. I thought about the Holocaust:  Adolph Hitler. 
  
 It was nearly impossible to control my Go-Fish face.

Finally the Captain of the S.S. American brought Kevin on stage and handed him to his stage mom.

Thank God for my A.D.D.  I thought to myself, "what a cute dog!" 

And then it was curtain call.  Whew.


But I don't think I'm going to win any stinkin' Tony award for my performance.