In the land of rhyme it’s Christmas time

Last night was the final performance of the boy’s Christmas play.  They picked me up from the station at precisely 18:25 (and there was me expecting them to be late) and we drove over to the school.  Yes I know, we could have walked, but sometimes I’m so heavy and tired and achy by the end of the day that I cheat and get the bus home one stop just to avoid pushing my body that little bit more.  As far as I was concerned, walking that mile trip and then back again would have just about finished me off. 

So the husband dropped me and the boy at the school gates at 18:33 (instead of the prescribed 18:40 because we’re naughty like that) and went off to park.  Even before 18:40 there were a fair few parents waiting outside the school.  The kids, being kids after all, were running around the place playing and generally making noise just as they tend to do during the day in the playground.  Then out came the headteacher.  Picture Angelica Huston in The Witchesbut that bit more scarier and you’re right about there.  “Children!  Will you be quiet?  We have neighbours, you know!”  Because kids think about neighbours when they’re running around playing with their friends.  And perhaps the school should’ve thought more carefully about said kids would be doing whilst they waited for the doors to open to them.

Eventually, past that specified 18:40, the kids were directed to their door and the parents sent around to the hall.  To wait.  For the scary lady from the office to let us in.  And wait.  And wait.  Needless to say by the time we’d all surrendered our tickets, collected the right programme and fought for the best seats it was gone the 19:00 start time.  We were lucky enough to get a seat in the second row but then again, maybe not so lucky; we were stuck right behind our friendly Grand High Witch. 

Before the play could start the GHW warned the yummy mummies lining the edges of the hall about the dangers of standing blocking the fire exits and made a point of telling us all that we had to sit through the entire two plays.  People had apparently left after the first half of the afternoon showing which was very rude.  All I could say was that perhaps if she could have been bothered to show her face for one extra night and had Y1 and Y2′s plays on different days, maybe people wouldn’t have left in the middle after seeing their own kid perform.

And now the start.

The boy’s year filed in to the hall and he looked around to spot us.  Obviously he wasn’t looking that hard because he walked right past us (we were at the end of the aisle he walked through) without even noticing.  Once he’d sat down and was looking in our direction I gave him a little wave (nothing compared to the cheerleading of some parents) and smiled.  He glared at me and shook his head; I understood.  Mum, don’t do that, you’re not allowed to wave.  And of course I had to tweet about it.  Because it was fairly painful watching the play otherwise whilst we waited for him to perform his three lines.

By midway through the first song the boy had clearly decided he wanted to compete for the title of loudest singer.  Every so often you’d hear a shout of the words and you’d know he was fighting for it.  All I could think was thank god this was hopefully the last time we’d be hearing these songs.  In the past week he’s done nothing but sing them.  It started out very cute but soon became trying.  And it’s not as if you can tell him to shut up, you have to be encouraging because it’s all about learning and playing his part.  Now at least we can tell him the time for singing those songs has passed and set him on the latest chart hits instead.

Then at last it was time for the boy’s part.  He stomped on stage, said his lines and stomped back off again having gotten everything just right.  I wouldn’t have expected anything less from him – after all, he was the kid who could tell us everyone else’s lines without a script in front of him.  But, with the boy’s part over, could we go home?  No.

There was nothing for it but to tweet my way through the rest of it.  The boy’s year filed out of the hall and this time he gave the husband a high five as he passed.  It was ok for him – he was off to get changed back into his uniform and watch a movie till it was all over.

Then Y2 filed in and we had to start the whole thing again.  But this time I had even less interest; there was no boy’s part to look forward to, just nameless, faceless kids I didn’t know.  No wonder half the audience of the afternoon performance had left before having to endure such torture again.  And then their teacher had the cheek to tell them to sing louder.  Didn’t she know what we were going through sitting back there? 

Of course by that point I was desperately checking my phone every three seconds for new tweets.  A few times phones behind us rang and the GHW turned round to glare and the culprit and mutter under her breath.  Each time I sneakily hid my own phone and looked away like a guilty teenager caught with a phone in class.  No way did I want my precious tweetdeck confiscated. 

At last the torture ended, but not before being encouraged to contribute to the collection basket (yes, after having had to pay for the tickets in the first place) and told to put away our chairs.  I notice the GHW didn’t bother tidying up hers though.  She stood at the back of the hall whilst the boy’s class lined up behind the door to be delivered to their parents.  She called out the names one by one; it would have been impressive if I hadn’t spotted the boy’s teacher standing behind her telling her who the kids were.  Once I had the boy I asked him if the GHW had to be told what his name was.  She did.  Result!  You’d think after the number of trips to the office he’s had, she would’ve known his name by now.  Maybe he’s not quite as naughty as we’d thought.

Once back in the car we made all the appropriate noises: the boy was the best Santa; his costume the best one; wasn’t he good remembering his lines.  He wasn’t really fussed, he was hungry and wanted to stay up late.  Not a chance.  He was good but not that good.

And it’s over now.  My head no longer hurts and we don’t have to endure the torture for another year.  But trust me, I won’t be sending him to stage school any time soon.