About This Blog

Rated P is a sketch comedy musical about parenthood celebrating the wonders & lunacy of raising kids from conception to college. This blog, written by Rated P's author & lyricist, Sandy Rustin, offers up a humorous and heartfelt look at the nitty gritty business of parenting.

Thursday, April 18, 2013

NOTE TO SELF: If you have your front door painted red, before you leave, warn the babysitter.

Last night (courtesy of CultureMomMedia) I was able to take my seven year old into NYC to see Peter and the Starcatcher, Off-Broadway at New World Stages. I had seen and loved the show initially at New York Theatre Workshop, but seeing it while seated next to my little boy, was a wholly new, wonderfully magical experience. (If you don't have your own little boy to take to see the show, I can loan you mine for the evening. He assures me he would see it again and again, considering he feels it's the "best play of his life.") Watching my boy, who "just wants to be a boy for a while," watch a tale about another boy who "just wants to be a boy for a while" hit a chord in an unexpected octave. I left the theatre feeling fiercely protective of his childhood and altogether too aware of how, without "starstuff," his boyhood will only last a very little while.

He asked terrific questions all the way home and I was struck by how adult our conversation has turned these days. Since when am I able to discuss "artistic liberties" with my kid?

When we arrived home, I was still buzzing from the rarity of a special night with my son, when I noticed something was off. The front door was shut.

Now, normally, of course, the front door should be shut at night. But when just that morning it's been painted ... a vibrant shade of red ... well, then, no. You see, in that scenario, the door should be left ajar so that the paint may dry.

I'd warned our regular, wonderful babysitter, to shut only the inner front door, but not the outer. I failed however, to mention it to our pinch-hitter-sitter who was filling in for the evening. #MommyFail. I'm sure that's a hashtag somewhere.

Our front door looked like it had made out with another door, while the sad white door frame looked like a crime scene. Meanwhile, the pinch-hitter-sitter was blissfully asleep on our sofa as I swore like sailor, lamenting the shmeared end to a perfect evening.

If only I'd had some "starstuff" I bet I could have fixed it. But alas, all I had was an iPhone with which to text the painter and invite him back for an encore.

Though tickets were graciously provided by Culture Mom Media, all opinions are my own.

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