Coming Back to Life

A couple things always surprise me about going through production to open a show. I don’t know why I’m surprised; I should totally be used to it by now, but I’m not.

Maybe I’m like the goldfish. They say goldfish have no memory, so every trip around the bowl is a new experience. Swim swim swim. . . Hey, look! A plastic cave! Swim swim swim. . . Hey, look! A plastic cave!

Or like the addict: This time, it’ll be different.

One of the things that surprises me is how each time I do production, it’s harder. This is because each time I do it, I’m older (I hit 40 this month, post to come!). My brain thinks that with age comes experience and so each production period should be easier than the last. My body, however, says, Sweetheart, you ain’t twenty-eight anymore.

When the sleep deprivation is hitting me and I struggle lifting coils of cable, it strikes me how viciously difficult it must be for women that have their kids later in life.

The other thing that surprises me is how long it takes me to come back to life when production is over. In my head, the day after opening night I have my house clean and I’m making home-cooked meals after I run five miles and go to yoga. My body, however, is fully invested in making endless pots of tea, reading magazines, and eating Girl Scout cookies.

Which is bliss.

All the flowering things are blooming in my neighborhood. It’s really beautiful. The last time I was here during daylight, it was winter. To me, it’s as if they just popped up in full bloom overnight.

And around my house, I struggle to understand anything that’s happening:

#4, wearing one shoe: I lost my shoe.

Me: I see. That’s problematic.

#4, to #5: Can you come help me find my shoe?

#5: You lost your shoe?

#4, shaking her foot: Duh.

#5: What’s wrong with you?

#4: Just come help me look.

They walk out of the kitchen. About thirty seconds later #5 walks back in.

#5: Sometimes she makes no sense.

Me: Oh?

#5: Yeah. She just told me to come look for her shoe and we went to her door but then she wouldn’t let me in her room.

Me: Hmm.

#5: That’s like sending a cow to an orphanage.

Me:

One of my favorite bloggers came to my opening night show last week and wrote about it. Check her out: GoJulesGo at GoGuiltyPleasures- How I Almost Walked The Red Carpet Last Week.

On why #5 got a stopwatch for Christmas

We had an impromptu Black Friday party at my house with a bunch of people that I like but don’t see nearly often enough.

#5 was the youngest person there. As you might imagine, he hit a wall where he had a shitload of energy to burn off and no way to do it. The open spaces in our house were full of glassware and adults. Neither of those are on a little boy’s Top Ten list of Favorite Things, so I made a suggestion.

Me: You look like you need to run around the house. Outside.

He gave me a look that was half-smile and half-eye roll. He knew exactly what this was about, but he likes running. He thinks he’s fast.

Me: Whaddaya say?

#5: Will you time me?

I tried to find a solution that didn’t require my participation.

Me: I’ll time you by the clock on the stove.

#5: How would that even work?

Me, sighing: I’ll get my phone. I’m pretty sure it has a stopwatch on it.

I set up at the back door with the stop watch function up on my phone.

#5, poised and ready: How many times?

Me: How about three?

#5: Three?!?! How about two?

Me: Okay, two.

#5: Good. Okay.

Me: Ready, set. . . Go!

He is pretty fast. And god bless him, he doesn’t do anything half way. Except maybe eat vegetables. He’s not a half-assed kid, in spite of his stepmom.

He came around from the second lap and I hit stop.

Me: 38.4 seconds

#5, breathing hard: That’s two-point-two seconds over my record.

Me: What’s your record?

#5: Seventeen seconds.

Me, taking a minute to catch up to his math: Oh.

We switch to one lap. He gets closer each time but setting a new record eludes him. He brings me outside to verify his route, asks if certain shortcuts are permissible.

He keeps running.

I keep timing.

After about twenty minutes I tell him that I’m going in to spend time with our guests, because I never get to see them.

#5: Can I keep running?

Me: Of course.

#5: But how will I time myself? How will I know if I broke my record?

We look at each other. We look at my phone. This is the only way I’m going to get a semi-interrupted visit with my guests, including my mother, who lives far away. But handing my phone over to a nine-year old boy so he can time himself running laps outside around the house seems ill-advised.

#5: I promise I won’t drop it.

And he gave me that super-cute, hopeful little boy look and I handed my phone right over. Had I had my wallet and car keys on me, I would have given him those too, and all my chocolate.

I went inside and joined the rest of my family.

He kept at it. I didn’t exactly get uninterrupted time with our guests, but I got time with them. #5 kept coming in to tell us his times and to ask our opinions on potential new routes. He began timing himself running around different obstacles, going on other parts of our property. He asked if he could run around the house backwards but since there are stone steps involved, we nixed that idea. He brought me out again to show how fast he could run up and down the hill and he slipped and slid the whole way down on his butt.

He did not let go of the phone.

My phone has an order of operations that is based solely on how much it can annoy you by interrupting what you’re trying to do. Incoming texts, missed calls, what have you- it makes sure to show you the least important information first in a way that makes it so you can’t get back to what you were trying to do in the first place.

Apparently, the stop watch function is not immune to this.

#5, running into the living room, completely out of breath: Oh, man, I can’t believe it! I was about to break my record and guess what happened? Somebody texted you!!!!

This happened three times before he finally gave it up. He gave me my phone back and sat quietly playing games with his sisters the rest of the afternoon.

Because he was tired.

Which, after all, was the whole point.

Unless you’re in an ugly contest

The entire contents of #5’s room are spread out over the living room. The Puggles are a mess about it. They go back and forth between climbing the mountain of clothes on the couch and stamping their feet at us because everything’s different.

The reason for this is that we’re painting #5’s room. And by we, I mean everyone in my family except for me.

I walked in there today and the girls were painting each other, not fully hip to just how hard it is to get wall paint off one’s person. And hair. Ah well, they know now.

Casey was wagging her whole self at me and I rubbed her ears and said, as I often do, “You are too cute!”

To which #5 replied, “You can never be ‘too cute’. Unless you’re in an ugly contest.”

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I made it to the day off again, end of my second week of my extra job.

I had noticeably less energy today than I did last week.

Also, far less patience.

But I went to yoga. We made popcorn and milkshakes and are watching Harry Potter Two: The Chamber of Secrets. I’m blessed that my husband did laundry so that I don’t have to go to the shop naked tomorrow. I’m lucky as hell that I got the day off today anyway.

Here’s why I didn’t have to mix my show today:

Thanks for doing Sunday’s shows so I can have a day off and not be an entirely hateful human being. These pictures are from the shop build that we’re doing together. He’s Vato’s dad, the teacup chihuahua with the bark control collar that #5 liked so much.

He’s a rack-building ninja. And a hand model.

Also? I was totally coveting his baby drill there. I loaded my current show in so long ago that even power tool technology has lapped me. Most stagehands in New York, even if they’re running a regular show, will pick up extra work building shows like this or else loading in those shows into the theaters. I did some of that, and then I got a bunch of kids. I’m finding myself having to replace a lot of work-related things (tools, work boots, pants I can actually work in- uh, not to mention underwear). Though I was pleased to discover that my old tool belt fits me again. I outgrew it for a couple years.

And Lo, the new Makita!