The axiom that a parent is only as happy as their unhappiest child rang true for me last week. It was the Wizard of Oz that caused the woe.
Fiadh, who is in P2, was fine and dandy, happy to be a merry munchkin in the school production, but for Imogen it was different.
There was a new teacher directing; a show-off, holding weeks and weeks of auditions like it was the West End. A process that would “help educate and inform and allow the children to deep dive the source material”.
“What is all the fuss about?” I was ordering last-minute stuff on the internet.
“That’s not going to arrive on time,” Fionnuala said, peering over my shoulder.
“And the fuss is good for them. Teaches them that things aren’t handed to you on a plate.”
I didn’t agree. Imogen was trying for the part of Dorothy, which the teacher said would be a younger pupil, as the P7s would supply the Witches and the Lion, the Scarecrow and the Tin Man.
She was even auditioning dogs for the part of Toto and I emphatically ruled out our mutt, Eric.
“But Daddy ,he’d be brilliant,” Dermot (playschool) said
“He’d poop on the stage, Dermot.”
Anyway, Imogen blattered away at her songs and dances and she was really good.
She is a talented Irish dancer and her singing is strong, but it was her acting that made us think she was in with a chance.
Biased parents are no fair judge but she watched Judy Garland again and again and was slowly morphing into the lost little girl from Kansas. I heard her in her room after lights out, singing quietly: “Birds fly over the rainbow. Why then, oh, why can’t I?”
The auditions were the next day. Breakfast went smoothly and as Fionnuala took her into school, I actually said a little prayer as the car disappeared down the lane: Dear God, if you’re there, let my little child get what she deserves.
You can guess what happened. She didn’t get the part and, according to Fionnuala, was brusquely treated. “Like cattle. In one door out the other. No mercy.”
However, she was able to brush off her disappointment.
“It means I won’t have to learn all those lines, Daddy.”
“Or the songs.” Fiadh was helping out.
“Your glass is half full.” I ruffled her ears, but I was crestfallen. And I wanted to slap that new teacher. In front of the whole school. Like in those slapping contests you see on YouTube.
So, the opening night came (it was actually ten in the morning) and as we traipsed into the community hall, I thought how pointless this all was. I had a face like a Bundoran loaf, according to Fionnuala.
The dads were there in their navy puffers and brogues, the mums in their glittering Christmas furs - and I began to despise everyone around me. The smiling teachers in particular.
But then the show started and everything changed. It was slick, and the leads were all good – Dorothy was a bit goofy, as her goofy parents watched in the front row - but the munchkins were getting all the laughs.
They were P1s and P2s and they didn’t have any stage fright; just doing as they were told, as best they could.
And Fiadh in the front row did all her steps perfectly. I slapped Fionnuala’s leg with joy at the wee boy beside her Duracell Bunny munchkin and Fiadh’s castaway look.
But the most beautiful sight was Imogen. Only two lines (I can’t remember, I was so spellbound) but tip-top silent reactions: shrugging shoulders with arms folded and nodding sagely like a pro; doing what she had to do for the show.
Invisible to the eye, but her competence calmed those in the storm around her and I thought of the magic of Christmas.
The casual prayer I sent earlier have been answered.