The Drama King

"I don't want to act. I'll be embarrassed."

We were on our way to the drama club/birthday party of a fellow homeschooler when Monet, my nine-year-old son told me how he felt. While this didn't surprise me, I figured he'd get over it pretty quickly.

He didn't.

While his five-year-old sister, Sweetheart was changing clothes seven or eight times in an effort to find the "fanciest" outfit she could find, Monet was trying to figure out how to get through to me that he just didn't want to go.

I understand how he feels. He hates being the center of attention and is very easily embarrassed. He's the person in the family who always thinks he's being ridiculed, even when no one's talking about him.

The reason we call him Monet, after all, is because he's an artist. He's happiest sitting in a corner with a pencil and a sketchbook, inventing and creating beings, machines and stories that very few people could even begin to imagine. I suppose we really should have dubbed him Leonardo. Most of his drawings involve elaborate labratories or spy centers with detailed environments and Rube Goldberg type contraptions. At nine, he still sucks his thumb and can often be found curled up with his dog, his thumb in his mouth, inventing some new idea or storyline.

I was braiding Sweetheart's hair when Monet came in and made his announcement.

"I don't want to act. I don't want to be in the play. Everyone will laugh at me." My first reaction was, "Oh, don't be silly," but then I realized that he was serious. "Just watch, then," I told him. I could tell from his reaction that he was torn. I could see that he wasn't even sure he wanted to go.

When we arrived at the location of the birthday party/drama club meeting, Sweetheart was lamenting the fact that her braids were undone and her hair was a mess. She was practically a basket case. Monet was dragging along behind. Houdin was all over it, a natural performer. As we stood at the door of the library, Monet hung behind.

"I really don't want to act," he said. "I don't want to be in the play at all." I could tell, then, that he didn't just have cold feet. This was really worrying him.

I'm sad to say that I hadn't had a very good day. We were already about an hour late to the party and I was feeling disorganized and frustrated. I wasn't in the patient homeschooler mode that I should have been.

Or maybe I did just the right thing.

"Let's just go in. I can't stand out here in the cold, and we're already late. Just go."

I was surprised to see how many kids were there. And I was pleased by the set-up of the activity. A stage on one end of the room, chairs set up for all of the parents to watch the performance when we would return after about two hours of their rehearsing--they were even videotaping the whole thing. The guest-of-honor's mother, Jen, greeted us warmly.

"I'm so glad you could come! I was worried that you couldn't make it!" I grunted some response, bad day, frustrated, couldn't get moving. The standard.

"I understand," she said, and motioned the kids toward the stage.

"We just finished our first warm-up game. You really didn't miss too much. Come on up on stage, kids!"

The birthday girl came running, hugged sweetheart zealously, and pulled her onto the stage, shouting over her shoulder, "Come on, Monet!"

Monet stood still.

He looked at me pleadingly, "Please, Mom. I don't want to do it. I'll be embarrassed. People will laugh at me."

"Well," I reasoned, "that's fine, but everyone else is on stage. Do you think you'd be more embarrassed being on stage with everyone else, or being the only one sitting here, not participating?" It sounded like the perfect motivation.

(I could insert here how my child gave me some lesson on nonconformity, and how proud I was to be corrected, but that's not what happened. Maybe another blog.)

"I'll just sit and watch," he said.

So I wished Jen luck, kissed Monet on the head, and said goodbye.

When I climbed back into the van, I told Bo, "Monet won't participate. He's embarrassed." While we spent our two hour lag time at Sam's Club, I wondered how Monet was doing.

Since we operate on Parent Standard Time, we returned to the performance a couple of minutes late. Monet was on the stage, next to the birthday girl.

He was acting!

And I don't mean that he was just grumbling through his lines. I mean, he was ACTING!

I whipped out the camera. I took several photos. I beamed. I wished that all of the homeschool skeptics could see my son, my precious boy, standing up there acting his heart out, reading his lines as if he'd been rehearsing for a week.

When the play was over, Monet came running to me.

"Did you see me? Did you see me acting? Did you like it? How did I do? Did you notice that part where I said, 'God has been here, like, forever?' Well, the 'like' wasn't in the script! I added that myself! Jen said we should be creative, so I just threw that in! What did you think? Did I do good? That was fun! Can we do it again? Will she have another drama group? I can't wait to be in it! Wow, that was fun!"

I stood there, smiling, amazed. When Monet had run off to have a piece of birthday cake, I asked Jen what happened.

"Well, I basically stuck a script in his hand and told him he had to do it. I didn't give him a choice. At first, he seemed to struggle a little, and I offered to trade him parts, give him something easier, you know? But he said, 'No. I like this guy. This is who I want to be.' So, he sat in a corner and read those lines over and over again until he had them down."

Wow. I was so impressed.

It reminded me of the time that my husband Bo and I were traveling to visit his parents in another state when Bo made a sudden turn off of our regular course.

"What are you doing? Where are we going?" The sun was getting low in the sky, and we had already been running late, running on parent standard time with a toddler (Bard) and a baby (Houdin).

"I want to show you something," he said. What could he possibly want to show me? Did he even know where he was going? We were going to get lost in nowhere land and we were going to be even later to his parents house. I was a bit miffed.

"Just trust me," he said. "I think we can make it on time if we hurry."

After a few wrong turns, and a few desperate pleadings from me to turn back, we stopped in the parking lot of a national park. It looked like your average national park, except for the huge mountain of sand towering in front of us. Bo jumped out of the car, grabbed Bard from her carseat and called behind him, "Hurry up! Let's go!"

"Bo, did you read that sign? The park closes at dusk! It's about that now! What if our car gets locked in?"

He didn't even stop to answer my question. He just started running up the hill of sand.

I grudgingly pulled Baby Houdin from his seat and started walking, then jogging, and then running to catch up with my husband. I was not happy. I don't think I'd run more than four steps since either of my babies were born. But there he went, bounding up this big mountain of sand, and, if I wanted to keep from getting lost, I had to bound up after him.

I was becoming increasingly angry and impatient. I literally felt like I was taking three steps forward and two steps back as my feet slid down the sandy hill with each forward step I made. I was sweating. My legs were aching.

"Where are we GOING???" I yelled.

"Just COME ON!" He yelled back. "I think we can still make it in time!"

"IN TIME FOR WHAT???"

Halfway up the hill, I was about to give up. I saw Bo crest the mountain of sand and stand there for a second, not moving. He set Toddler Bard down and came sliding down towards me, grabbed Baby Houdin from my arms and said,"Run! Come on! Hurry up!"

What in the WORLD was this NUTCASE doing? What could be SO all-fired important?

When I got to the top of hill, panting and out of breath, about to slug my husband in the gut, I could see. I could see just what he wanted me to see.

It was one of the most beautiful sights I'd ever beheld. From the top of this huge sand dune, I could see the perfect sunset, the big ball of glowing orange reflected in the cotton-candy clouds and the blueness that was Lake Michigan. I was breathless, but not from the run up the sand dune. It was simply a breathtaking scene.

I guess sometimes we just have to do the things we don't want to do in order to realize that there is more out there than what we understand, more beauty than what we can imagine.

Sometimes, when we're forced to do something we don't want to do, we get the greatest rewards.