Untitled #16

About a month ago the boy came back with a sheet of paper in his book bag, that sheet containing a partial script for his school play.  On one side were three lines, each highlighted in yellow, that he was to learn for his part.  We sat down each night in that first week and I watched as he read the lines, half taking the words from the page, half reading them from memory.  He struggled but he was getting there.  He was going to play Santa. 

A week later we received another sheet of paper in the boy’s book bag, a similar sheet to before, but this time with three lines highlighted in pink.  Clearly someone hadn’t thought the casting of the play through because the three pink lines were different to the three yellow ones.  But the boy was still going to be Santa and he already seemed to know his new lines better than the old ones.  In fact, he seemed to know the words to most of the play.  And everyone else’s songs.  And the actions.

Then two weeks ago came the letter.  Could we please provide a Santa costume.  In a week.  I took all of one third of a second to think about it and promptly got on the phone to the mother.  The closest thing I could make to a Santa costume would be a red top and trousers, black belt and a Santa hat from the pound shop. 

On the bottom of the letter was a small note: if your child won’t be able to attend the evening performance, they will not be allowed to be in the play.  This coming two weeks after they’ve already started rehearsing.  Wouldn’t it have been fairer on the kids to make this point before they got started?

Two nights before the costume had to be at school the mother came over with a giant wicker basket full of sewing bits and a Santa costume she’d found at the pound shop.  The boy tried the thing on and stood patiently as she sewed velcro on the jacket to keep it from coming undone.  He was no so patient as she made additional holes in one of the father’s black belts and was reduced to full-blown hyperactivity as she tried to craft a beard and attach it to the hat.  I may have laughed but the boy really didn’t find it funny that one beard material was itchy, another too fluffy (which resulted in far too many bits of fluff in his mouth) but eventually him and the mother struck a deal and the costume was finished.

Last weekend, over dinner at the mother’s, we talked about the play.  The boy recited his lines and the adults displayed the appropriate enthusiasm (which was certainly difficult on the part of the husband and myself, having heard the ‘Christmas song’ one too many times every hour since the boy learned it).  Have you got tickets the mother asked.  Oooh, I’d never even thought of that.  Not that they’d sent a letter home telling us how to get them.  I’d just assumed we’d turn up at the time given on the yearly calendar.

Monday the husband forgot about the tickets.  That’s ok, I forgot to remind him too.   In the book bag came a letter advising us that children should be returned to school at 6:40 (and not before).  I assume that also means not a moment later.  It also advises parents that no children under the age of 12 will be allowed to attend the play.  Good job we’ve not got any of those then otherwise finding a babysitter at such short notice would be a challenge.  No word on whether we need to nor how to obtain tickets though. 

Tuesday morning I did remember to remind the husband about looking into tickets.  Not that it did much good.  He forgot to take his wallet with him and by the time he’d retrieved it and returned to the school the person he needed to speak with had gone for lunch.  He did remember when he went to pick the boy up and managed to buy two tickets for us, on what was apparently the last day they were on sale.  Without having informed parents they were on sale in the first place. 

But more importantly, he had to buy the tickets.  Buy.  This is a 5 year old’s school play not a recital of Beethoven’s entire works.  I understand the need for tickets when there is limited space and fire safety to take into consideration but to buy them?  That’s going overboard.  Especially when you can guarantee there’ll be a collection for the school on the way out and the scary woman from the office will be holding that basket, glaring at you as you try to sneak past with your wallet hidden.  I probably would have donated more than the price of the tickets if it wasn’t for the fact we had to pay to get in in the first place.