I’m still smarting from that audition yesterday. I’m trying not to globalize, but when things like this happen, I start thinking I need to quit acting and move to a cabin in the mountains and catch my own food. I know we are all entitled to a bad audition once in a while. The problem is when they’re as few and far between as mine seem to be these days, each audition becomes more important. And auditioning is a skill that requires maintenance. Eight months off is a lot. I’m really disappointed in myself.
Monty’s camp counselor informed me the other day that Monty spit at a classmate and tends to be “jittery,” and is having trouble listening to his counselors and doing what they ask of him. And, of course, my brain goes right to “Oh, my god, is my son a sociopath?” The sane part of me knows that he’s been going through a lot of changes recently, and that living with me isn’t always a picnic, and that it’s normal for kids to act out sometimes. And I know he isn’t being challenged, like, AT ALL at camp and is bored out of his mind, so yeah, he doesn’t want to listen when the teacher tells him to sit down so he can wait for them to figure out that ONCE AGAIN the school bus isn’t coming to take them on a field trip, so they have to cancel ONCE AGAIN. But, yes, I know he has to respect his elders. And yes, he has to learn how to be compliant because that’s what our education system is built on (this is a critique of the system not of teachers, so don’t @ me). And he has to learn not to get up and dance when there’s music playing because… kids should only dance when they’re instructed to?
I have often said, I believe firmly, that my main job as a parent is unteaching Monty all the garbage he learns out in the world. I send him to camp with food I know he loves and unpack a full lunchbox at the end of the, everything in it untouched, except maybe the pretzels, if I’m lucky. One afternoon at home he ate half a dozen hardboiled eggs. One kid who probably still doesn’t even know how to put their socks on by themselves says “eeeiiiww!” when he takes out a hardboiled egg at camp and that’s the end of that. And the list is growing. Snow peas? Forget it. Pickles? Fuck off. A sandwich on bread that contains some nutrients? Shove it right up your ass. A snack that doesn’t have gummy bears or cookies or JUICE?! Call DPS. The other day I asked him who was smarter, the kid who said pickles are gross or me. Monty said the pickle-hater was smarter.
Oh, and dolls, dollhouses, and anything pink? Not a chance.
What am I supposed to do? Buy him a pink scooter just to prove a point? I might as well flush 60 bucks down the toilet. Should I keep packing him healthy food that he’s not going to eat? His counselors think he’s not paying attention now? Just wait ‘til he has to go half the day having only eaten five Teddy Grahams at lunch because that’s all the sweets I’ll agree to give him anymore until he shows me he’s eating the rest of his food. When I make him promise that he’ll eat his real food before his sweets, is he going to actually eat it, or is he going to learn how to sneak around my rules? Am I helping him to be healthy and set up healthy habits or am I teaching him to resent me?
I remember struggling all through grade school with whether I wanted school lunch or packed lunch. First there was the issue of my lunch box. Honestly, I don’t even remember what was on it, but I remember knowing it was supremely uncool and I was embarrassed to use it. Then there was the fact that my mom insisted on packing me whole, nutritious foods. The closest I ever got to a treat in my lunch box was a Kudos bar. I was already the laughing stock of my class. The nerd food didn’t help my image. So, I would beg my mom to let me get school lunch. The cool kids got the school lunch. But you want to know something about the Department of Education’s “food”? It’s fucking disgusting. Even at eight years old I knew this to be fact. So, I would soldier my way through that food as long as I could before folding and going back to the actual food food my mother would pack for me and the cycle would start again.
I joined Monty for lunch at camp one day early on. This was before I started packing his lunches. I guess I figured the DOJ had gotten its act together and was serving actual food. Lunch was a baloney sandwich (I’m not kidding), on squishy white bread, a Dole pineapple cup (in syrup), and baby carrots (!!!) with powdered ranch seasoning. Like, why? Why not just the fucking carrots? Baby carrots are a kid favorite. It’s a scientific fucking fact. Kids like tiny versions of food. And carrots are sweet. For fuck’s sake. Oh, oh! And to DRINK? CHOCOLATE FUCKING MILK. Chocolate milk. They take a perfectly acceptable drink and add high fructose corn syrup and chocolate FLAVOR to it AND GIVE IT TO SMALL HUMANS. And then they’re expected to sit down and listen?! Come the fuck on.
I asked Monty if he would prefer if I packed his lunch for him from then on and he quickly said yes. Each day since there’s a new thing he loves that he now thinks is “disgusting.” And the cycle that I put myself through in school will continue with my progeny. I am bracing myself for the next however many years he has left of public school (which is, literally all of them, since he only starts kindergarten this fall) during which Monty will vacillate between desperately wanting to be cool, suffering through the “food” they serve at school, and enduring being called a nerd when he folds and brings A DELICOUS HOME-PREPARED lunch.
“My mother sent me to school with cheese sticks, and seaweed snacks, and FRUIT! All the other kids got chips and gummy bears. That’s why I have to live in a cabin in the mountains and catch my own food."
I’ve been back in NYC for a little over a month. I got home and immediately felt overwhelmed by the task of unpacked my room which I had literally just finished unpacking when I left for eight months to go on tour. It is a right mess in here and every time I tell Monty to put away his toys, I FULLY recognize that I’m being a hypocrite.
The walls in this apartment seem to be made of particle board and hope. So, hanging anything is a Sisyphean feat. Also, I’m unemployed and yet I seem to have no time to get shit done.
I woke up last night some time between 4 and 5am (I think?) and could not get back to sleep. Monty was up and ready to go at 6:30. I got him off to camp and even managed to have breakfast. I wore a dress (period piece), which I haven't done in eight months, so I felt a bit like a gorilla in a tutu. Then I made the grievous mistake of getting to an audition an hour and a half early… By the time they brought me in, I was hungry and exhausted and wearing a dress, and I am 100% sure I made a complete and total ass of myself. This was for a casting director I’ve known for two decades, a director I would love to work with, and an artistic director I’ve been forging a friendship with. Guys. It was a stinker. And there were no windows in the room, so they won’t even be able to air it out. Words were coming out of my face and I was like, “Why are you talking like that? What happened to the fucking choices we just spent the hour and half going over?” I am MORTIFIED. If you catch me on the subway today randomly yelling “fuck!”, you’ll know why. I hate this feeling.
And so, it’s 1:30 in the afternoon and I’m lying in bed, writing this, and having a beer before I take a nap. Yes, my room is still a disaster area. There are bins and boxes that need to be gone through and their contents put…somewhere? But I want to crawl UNDER my bed (which I can’t do because I haven’t put the frame on risers yet because time, so there’s no way to get ANYTHING under it (except dust…)).
That’s it. That’s all I have. I’m swear I’m going to post more frequently. Because I have a lot to share about gender identity, single-parenting, NYC, etc.
And because it’s a great excuse to not unpack.