OMFG I’ve become a mommy blogger. Shit. Next I’ll be writing about wine, coffee, my love of black yoga pants for anything BUT yoga, and being present in the moment with my children and how I lovingly control their screen time (excuse me as I choke on myself).
But before I go down that disaster of a rabbit hole, I’m starting with something that will make most sanctimonious, judgmental mommies feel even better about their shitty parenting…my offspring are child actors. Talk to almost any parent of a child actor and within about 2 minutes you’ll get the carefully curated speech with some bullshit version of how much their child LOVES this and how their child asked to do this; sometimes if we’re feeling really insecure or uncomfortable we’ll throw in an anecdote about how they faced something on set that was truly trying; but they just love this so much; some real college entry essay adversity shit. We know your judgment is coming and we do what we can to fend it off. We fail; but we try.
And seriously, like fuck they asked. Our kids will generally ask for the same crap: screen time, snacks, ass wiping (for those of you with the under 7 set; or maybe older-hell, I’m not judging anyone who helps keep their kid from getting skid marks or an itchy bottom and pink eye-you know I’m right), more screen time, toys, books, to play outside, and for you to send their baby brother or sister back from where they came (oh, wait; maybe that’s just me).
Let’s be honest, for 98% of you-here’s what really happened: you thought it would be freaking awesome for your kid to be famous and make some money. You envisioned bragging to your friends about how your kid was on such and such show, having college paid for, sending DVD’s of their first movie to all your relatives, seeing them in magazine ads…and IT’S OK! Because most parents do the SAME thing; whether it be soccer, baseball, football, lacrosse, chess, academics-most of us want our kids to be exceptional at something-to make their mark on SOMETHING besides their nostrils when they go digging for gold. Your kid thought it would be cool to be on TV or the Internet (if they’re old enough to understand), and a lot of these auditions ARE actually fun for our kids: they get to play pretend, praise, screen time, snacks, to meet new kids, ask for playdates, and get alone time with mom or dad.
(Wait, back to the, “It’s OK” thing…it’s OK except for you jacked up moms and dads making your kids cry outside auditions because they forgot a line, got a little spazzed out BECAUSE THEY’RE KIDS, or didn’t slate the “right way.” I see you; and YOU, I judge, asshole).
It just happens to be that being a stage parent can be considered the trashy trailer park of the world of child accomplishments. That’s cool; let them judge and enjoy their participation trophies while our spawn learn to talk to adults like decent humans, read at earlier ages, grasp basic communication skills, and develop confidence. (Side note- true story: some mom in my kid’s class was humble bragging to me about how many sight words her son knew and she asked where my son was on testing day, with some pseudo, sugary, holier than thou concern about his academic well-being. I got to tell her he tested out of them weeks ago and missed testing day because he was shooting a major commercial for a store we all go to. Suck it. OK, moving on…)
So, you start this wild ride (which is a whole other post, or 6, for another time) and you realize it’s like a Dragon’s Tail, or wanting to roll that 7 or 11. You drive all over the damn place to studios that say, “no actor parking,” “no parking during whatever time you’re here,” “tow away zone,” “fuck you and your parking,” and my personal favorite: “permit parking only,” to have, many times, an overworked millennial hipster casting assistant treat you like chattel and get pissed off when you don’t designate what role your kid is there for EVEN THOUGH THERE WAS NO *&#)@&# PLACE TO PUT IT, YOU BASTARD! (Again, for another post).
And you do this again, and again, and again; until you’re driving from Hollywood to your home, which is almost always an hour or two away no matter what; mumbling to yourself how this is bullshit, you’re never doing this again, fuck this for a barrel of monkeys, I’ve got better things to do with my time, why does my kid visit a salon every few weeks while I haven’t had a decent haircut in forever…? And on and on and on… (No, I’m not a mommy martyr; I like doing pretty things for me but if it’s between 2 hours at a salon, or catching up on my never ending pile of laundry while watching Queen of the South or Claws; Teresa and Desna FTW)!
Then you look in the backseat and your kid is happily chatting away, having their snack, playing their games, and basically being a happy kid. You calm the fuck down for a minute and let yourself daydream about what if he gets “the part.”
Finally comes the text: “You have a callback, press 1 to confirm the time.” And you press 1; yeah, you do. We all do.
We Are Not Stage Moms 