 |
 |
 |
 |
Posts Tagged ‘role model’
Pink eye. My son Ethan had pink eye. I knew the second he entered my bedroom and demanded I make him a bowl of Trader Joe’s Leapin’ Lemurs cereal he had it. His bloodshot right eye looked swollen and a small glob of greenish mucus rested in the corner of the eye close to his nose.
It is a well known fact that at my child’s school, pink eye is treated with the same scorched-Earth policy I’m certain the CDC reserves for an Ebola outbreak. Once identified with the shameful condition, your child is immediately quarantined from the ‘normal’ population and is confined to a trailer-like ‘holding area.’ The offending child’s work surface, pencils, crayons, and cubbyhole are then sanitized with the zeal and determination an atomic worker reserves for mopping up spilled plutonium.
The neglectful parent is telephoned and the ‘seriously ill’ child discharged to their custody. I’m convinced that peasants dying from plague in the middle ages were treated with more deference and civility then my 1st grader would be were I to send him to school in his present condition.
“You better take him to the doctor.” My husband George suggested already dressed for work, and downing his repugnant peanut butter, banana and low-fat vanilla yogurt breakfast smoothie as he headed out the front door. “They won’t let him in class with Pink Eye – it’s contagious you know.”
“Is that your final diagnosis, doctor?” I responded sarcastically as he passed.
“Yes.”
“What do you mean I have to take him?” I called.
My husband George, the former stay-at-home dad who had recently returned to his highly paid, soul-sapping career in film production was half way down our front steps and stopped suddenly. He turned, and with a knowing grin on his face replied “It is now your responsibility to take our child to doctor appointments. Those joyful, primary care responsibilities that used to mine, are now yours.” He bounded down the remaining steps, hopped into the ‘mom car’ SUV I bought him and gunned the engine. As he pulled away, I could see his reflection in the rear view mirror -his knowing grin had turned into full-fledged laugh riot. The prick.
Our son Ethan joined me on the landing and witnessed George gleefully zoom off. “Get dressed. We have to go to the doctor.” I said to Ethan wearily. He peered at me now with the same sad expression usually reserved for those frightening Margaret Keane ‘Big Eye’ paintings. A single tear fell from his puffy, red rimmed eye.
“I don’t need to go to the doctor.”
“Yes, you do.”
“No really, Dad – I don’t need to go to the doctor. I just rubbed my eye funny.”
“You’re going to the doctor.”
“I really don’t want to go.”
“I insist.”
“I’m not going.”
There comes a point in almost every negotiation with one’s child where you start to feel like the United Nations. My son Ethan had become like the regimes of Iran or North Korea whose defiant, nationalist ideology cause them to shrug off the demands of Washington. On the other hand, I had become like The Bush Doctrine personified – I was far more likely to use preemptive force, rather than negotiation, to counter threats from his weapons of mass destruction which in this case consisted mainly of tears, whining, and a stubborn and steadfast resolve to piss me off.
“GET DRESSED NOW!” I barked. “It’s not my fault you have Pink Eye. NOW MOVE IT!” Like Iran or North Korea, my son slowly and begrudgingly complied, but I suspected that whatever superficial demands he met, I would suffer grave consequences due to the cache of weapons he stored in bunkers deep underground.
As we drove to the doctor, Ethan sat in the back of my car and cried softly.
“Ethan, what’s wrong?” I asked. “Why are you crying?”
“I miss papa.” He said miserably.
“I miss him, too.” I replied.
He paused, and then launched a carefully planned, ‘surgical strike’ attack of his own.
“I like him better than you, you know.” he said provocatively.
“That doesn’t surprise me.” I countered.
Ethan paused a moment and seeing that this minor attack was not achieving the ‘shock and awe’ effect that he desired, my son trotted out the big guns. “I wish you would die so that papa and I could be happy.”
I should have been decimated, blown-to-bits by my son’s ‘carry a big stick’ assault, but for some reason it just made me laugh inside. I have no doubt that in the event of my premature death, George would find a new husband and stepfather for Ethan at once. Immediately after the pomp and circumstance of my funeral service and the emotional theatrics of my Shiva, George would be introduced to a rakishly handsome man named Geoffri (nobody in LA ever spells their name normally) – Geoff to his friends. By an astonishing coincidence, Geoff would be a respected professor of French film at George’s Alma Mater UCLA. Known for his authoritative manner and winning ways Geoff is popular with both students, faculty and the alumni. George and Geoff, or G&G as they would come to be known, would host lively ‘salons’ in the home of the first Mrs. De Winter better known as ‘Tod, the dead guy.” The invited guests, the intellectual glitterati of Los Angeles (an oxymoron) would sedately and meditatively discuss the films of Francois Truffaut, Jean-Luc Godard, Eric Rohmer, and Jacque Rivette. My former son Ethan, who would be sitting on Geoff’s lap and hanging on every word, would shed a tear when Geoff expressed his profound sadness that the French New Wave filmmakers were originally rejected by Hollywood due to their self-conscious rejection of classical cinematic form and their spirit of youthful iconoclasm.
“Daddy Geoff, I feel your pain.” Ethan would say bravely.
“Ne vous inquiétez pas, mon amour, papa va bien.” Daddy Geoff would say lovingly.
“Je suis tellement heureuse.” Ethan would respond with a giggle. Daddy Geoff was adamant that if Ethan were truly to understand the French Avaunt Garde, it was imperative for him to speak fluent French.
“Enough of that you two.” George would say playfully. “Ethan it’s off to bed now.”
“Bonne nuit Papa et Daddy Geoff. Je t’aime!“
As Ethan scampers off to bed, George perches himself on the arm of the expensive Donghia sofa paid for by his former, dead lover (What’s his name?) and places a protective arm around a weary Geoff. George frets that Geoff had yet again exhausted himself with his intellectual pursuits. They had better head out to their sprawling, life insurance-paid-for horse farm in Ojai for some much needed R&R.
After chasing Ethan around the doctors office, pinning him to an examining table and prying his eye open with my bare hands, Ethan’s pediatrician and I were able to treat his ‘affliction.’ Feeling that I had been too ‘enemy combatant’ in my approach, I extended an olive branch and offered Ethan a Slurpee at 7-11.
“That would be great, thanks, dad.”
“No problem.”
As we got out of the car, Ethan glanced up at me and said “Dad, You know I don’t really want you to die, right?”
“Of course.”
As we traversed our way hand-in-hand through a filthy Hollywood 7-11 parking lot, I realized that formal hostilities between my son and I had officially come to an end. The battlefield theater closed and the troops sent home. I was tempted to claim victory loudly, but in that moment remembered Aristotle’s famous quote ‘We make war so that we may live in peace.’ I walked next to my son in contented silence.
I love Disneyland. I can’t help it. As cynical and embittered as I might be – the second I enter that crazy, Third Reich-inspired Anaheim parking structure I squeal with pleasure. I delight in the incredibly ordered, military precision of those polite Disney ‘Cast Members’ who direct me into my Donald Duck, Mickey Mouse, or Chip n’ Dale parking space. Southern California may have the nation’s worst traffic, filthiest air, and unrelenting poverty – but I am able to buy unrestricted, go-anytime-you-want, zillion dollar platinum passes for my family. (I can’t be bothered with pesky black-out days or having to stand in line with those sandal wearing, German tourists)
I’m one of those truly embarrassing dads that wears his Mickey Mouse ears around the entire park and has the gumption to rock-out to that bizarre ‘Block Party’ parade where all the cute, young dancers dressed as flowers bounce up and down on stilts. Naturally, I maintain a standing reservation at ‘Ariel’s Grotto,’ the chicest place at Disneyland. (Ariel’s Grotto is Disney’s version of the Stork Club, all the prettiest most poised Disney princesses visit your table and make small talk. I’ve developed a very close personal relationship with Cinderella who calls me ‘Sir’ Tod when she sees me – it’s a gas!)
Last weekend, we arrived at the park promptly at 8:30 AM and the moment I slid my Platinum pass though the gate scanner I was like a thoroughbred charging down main street. Anxious to get to Space Mountain, The Haunted House, Indiana Jones, and all the choicest rides I took no notice of my son having come to a complete stop behind me. I whizzed past a tour group of Japanese housewives and was but a few, precious steps from jumping on the new (minimum two hour wait) FINDING NEMO ride when my cell phone rang. My husband informed me that our son Ethan was staging a sit-in and refused (REFUSED!) to go on any rides. My husband George, who works in film production and at times talks to me like I’m his production assistant, ordered me to return to base camp at once.
Angrily, I returned to our ‘base camp’ which of course turned out to be that hokey, general store where Disney sells their ghastly treasure trove of high fructose corn syrup-laden candy, cookies, and Mickey Mouse shaped Rice Krispie treats. Ethan was in tears and made the most grotesque pronouncement I had ever heard.
“I don’t like Disneyland rides,” he cried “I only want to go to the playground.”
George explained to me that the majority of ‘adult’ rides were too loud and hurt Ethan’s sensitive ears. Munching on a Goofy shaped scone, Ethan was resolute. He was absolutely NOT going to go on a single ride that I favored. No Indiana Jones, no Haunted House, No Space Mountain and certainly no Tower of Terror. He even nixed IT’S A SMALL WORLD and PETER PAN for Christ’s sake! My fury began to build.
“You can’t be serious,” I demanded, “What is the point of coming to Disneyland if you don’t ride the rides?”
“I’m afraid this day isn’t about you,” George replied, “This day is about our son and he wants to go to the playground in California Adventure.”
“Yeah, Dad it’s about me.” Ethan sneered as the scone crumbs fell from his mouth.
Hand in hand, George and Ethan began to head down Main Street towards California Adventure home of the infamous ‘Tree Playground.’ I was outraged. Clearly this was some kind of cooked-up conspiracy. What did they mean ‘This day wasn’t about me?’ Excuse me, but EVERY DAY is about me. I work hard. I break my back making the money to pay for those elitist entry passes. It’s my God given responsibility – no scratch that, God given RIGHT to ride THE MATTERHORN with with my family. I was seething and sulked all the way to the gates of California Adventure. I wanted to kill them both.
Upon arriving at the ‘Tree Playground’ which I’ve come to learn is called ‘Grizzly Peak’ Ethan scampered off to climb a rock wall. George and I sat there staring at our son and at each other. It was 9:05 AM and I insisted on getting a frozen Margarita from Rita’s Baja Blenders. (My second favorite watering hole at Disneyland after Ariel’s Grotto) Standing there in my Mickey Mouse hat, sipping my alcohol day-glo drink, I watched my son climb the same rock wall 30 times.
It was probably the cheap tequila that had permeated my brain, but by 9:25 I began to see the Zen of this situation. I had no place to go – I had only to be. My job was to sit there, watch my son climb the rock wall an infinite number of times and shout words of encouragement. My husband George tentatively came next to me and squeezed my neck.
“How’s my baby?” he asked soothingly.
“I’m sad.” I responded.
I mourned that there would be no thrilling rides on ‘California Soaring.’ I mourned that there would be no witty cocktail banter with my close friend Cinderella. Worst of all I would be forced to be my son’s valet, carrying his half-eaten scone, Mickey Mouse ears, and water bottle for the rest of the day.
George put his head on my shoulder and whispered in my ear, “I love you, you know.”
I pulled my husband close to me and kissed him deeply. I pretended not to notice the German tourists gawking at the two full-grown, drunk men wearing Mickey Mouse ears kissing.
Several days ago I received the most thrilling email of my life.
A children’s modeling agency was interested in possibly representing my son Ethan. Liz-Beth, the agency owner was seeking ‘talent’ for a prominent childrens clothing catalogue and had heard through a mutual friend that my son Ethan possessed the ideal All-American ‘look.’ Liz-Beth suggested that I bring Ethan to the set early Sunday morning for some test shots. She assured me it would be in intimate affair and was really just a formality – Ethan’s good looks, poise and natural ‘ability’ was certain to land him the job and a fabulous future career in childrens modeling. My head began to spin with excitement. Just the words ‘set’ and ‘test shots’ sent me into a tizzy. I fantasized about attending New York’s Fashion Week, front-and-center with my good friends Dita Von Teese, Mary Kate Olsen and Anna Wintour discussing Ethan’s meteoric rise to the top of the childrens modeling world.
“He’s a winner, an absolute doll!’ Dita would shout during the crowd’s standing ovation for my son.
Anna, who generally said little during fashion shows, sat in her folding chair sobbing.
“I’ve seen the face of God,” Anna moaned “Ethan. Ethan. Ethan.”
“Stop it, you two,” I would chide playfully “He’s just an ordinary kid.”
“Only much better looking!” Mary Kate would giggle.
Anna, Dita, Mary Kate and I would dissolve into peels of laughter, our little ‘joke’ causing crocodile tears to roll down my cheeks. The other ‘lesser’ children in the show might as well have been wearing burlap sacks – their mediocrity eclipsed by my son’s incandescent beauty. Not wanting Dita, Anna, Mary Kate, the fashion press or (God forbid) the paparazzi to see the tears of joy rimming my eyes, I planned on wearing my Faux Semblant Carré Louis Vuitton sunglasses that I adore, but my husband George swears make me look like Edith Head.
“We’ll do our best to make it,” I replied (trying to sound blase in my email response ), “But Ethan’s been working like crazy – I had hoped that he might have at least ONE day off this month. I’ll see what I can do.”
The next few days at our home consisted of model boot camp. At regular intervals I would bark at Ethan to ‘find the lens‘ and would demand he give me varied ranges of facial expressions. I would carefully critique his ‘look’ and then fine tune his poor ‘performance.’
“Look Ethan,” I said during one frustrating posing session,”Modeling is not for the faint of heart. It’s a career, not a job!” He shrugged his shoulders and continued to throw a tennis ball against my bedroom wall.
Sunday finally arrived and I sprang out of bed. I carefully dressed Ethan and styled his hair to look ‘sporty.’ With great anticipation, we set off for West Los Angeles and our thrilling new life in childrens modeling!
The audition was being held at a large hangar in close proximity to the Santa Monica airport. As we entered the building I could hear the cacophony of dozens if not hundreds of children. A small, dark vestibule opened into large open room that served as a photo studio where throngs of the most gorgeous, blond haired, blue eyed Hitler Youth looking children frolicked. It was as if I had entered the modeling equivalent of VILLAGE OF THE DAMNED. I was stunned. My son happily joined the throng of boy clones currently engrossed in some kind of twisted video game, and I stationed myself at a table with a mother who never glanced at me nor spoke a single word. From what I could tell, she was too busy downing espresso shots and emailing her son’s extensive modeling portfolio to perspective agents, photo shoot producers and magazine editors.
An hour later, my son’s name was called by a bored production assistant who informed me that they had already met with 500 children in the last two days – and were in desperate need of some Red Bulls. I had difficulty in locating Ethan as he had officially joined the Aryan Brotherhood. I had a hell of a time differentiating him from the Austin, Trevor, Brandon, Malcolm, and Henry clones so I loudly called out his name and took the child that responded in the affirmative.
The entire photo session lasted 15 seconds. My son looked at the camera, yawned and made a half-hearted attempt at smiling. The photographer snapped a dozen or so listless digital photos, high-fived my son and it was over. My son raced back to join his buddies in the brotherhood and I watched my, I mean his dreams of modeling go down the tubes. There were no fashion shows in our future, no fabulous lunches at NOBU with Anna, Dita and Mary Kate, and certainly no future bidding wars by IN-STYLE for our ‘candid’ at-home photos.
On the drive home, I casually asked the child in my car (I think I took my child) if he had enjoyed his modeling experience. I was shocked to learn that he thought it was ‘cool’ and asked me to set up a playdate with his blond buds from the brotherhood.
I put the number for NOBU back in my Blackberry’s speed dial.
Recent Comments