And another stage mother is born

I was having trouble breathing. I was trying to … catch up. Here it was, the single most important announcement to hit our family since, well, forever, and he forgot to tell me?

“Well, when did you find out?” I asked him.

“I think it was last week sometime,” he said, calmly smearing butter on his potatoes. We were having a late dinner. The kids were already in bed. He chose this as the moment to fork over the news: When he was dropping our daughter Anna at kindergarten one day, her teacher informed him that Anna had been selected to play Mary in the Christmas pageant.

“Mary! ” I said. “Does Anna know this?”

“Well, she was standing right there when the teacher told me,” he said.

And she didn’t tell me, either? “What is the matter with you people?” I said.

“Us?” he said.

I was hyperventilating. Mary! Spasms of joy were engulfing my heart. I was being transported to an exalted state – the Mother of Mary! – while Mr. Mashed Potatoes over there was staring blankly. “Honey – Mary?”

“Yeah?” he said.

I reached inward and found something resembling forgiveness. “You didn’t grow up in Christmas-pageant culture,” I said, referring to the fact that he is Jewish. “You don’t understand how big this is.”

“Mary,” he said, “was Jewish.”

Oh, this was no time for smarty-pants talk. “Our daughter is going to be the star of the show!” I said.

“I thought Jesus was the star,” he said.

I reiterated my smarty-pants line. I asked him to please help me figure out just how it was they chose our child for this role. Her beauty? Intelligence? Some obvious grace?

“I really just figured they gave it to her because it’s the one part that doesn’t have any lines,” he said, referring to our daughter’s known shyness. “It’s probably the only way they could be sure she would participate.”

I hung my head, held on to the bridge of my nose as if for dear sanity. I did not know where to begin. Sheep, OK, sheep have no lines. Donkeys have no lines. The star guiding the shepherds (who hardly have any lines) may have attitude – but no lines. You could stuff that manger full of any number of kindergartners with no lines.

“Mary!” I said. I had to make some calls. I had to spread the word. I had to find out who was handling wardrobe. I needed to talk to the person in charge of casting and compliment him or her on the divine elegance of the decision to cast my child in this role. I did quick calculations in my head, figuring how many other potential Marys she beat out.

Three kindergarten classes of 20 kids, and about half of the total girls, so 30! Wow! What’s a stage mother to do? How would I talk to the other mothers whose children were cast as mere angels? And what was I going to wear to the big show? I would need to look elegant. I would need a mink stole, some boots with high heels, a long, thin cigarette holder. I would insist on no more photos, please!

The next morning I greeted Anna with a smile. “Mary!” I said, gleefully. “Why didn’t you tell me?” She did not immediately understand the reference. “Honey, Mary?” She smiled, finally. She said, “Anthony is going to be Joseph and we have to wear sandals.”

“Aren’t you excited? I mean … Mary!”

“I got picked to be the helper last Friday, too,” she said. Right. The person in charge of juice. Why was she telling me this? What, exactly, is the matter with my family? Was this how Mama Rose felt when Gypsy was just getting started?

As I write this, I have no way of knowing how the performance will go, nor how the reviewers will respond, nor what I’ll do about all the agents who call and when I’ll have to start my kid wearing big hats and sunglasses.

For now, I am simply spreading the good news of Mary. Some of my friends get it better than others. Wendy, whose daughter, Melanie, is also in kindergarten, gets it good. She’s thrilled. She tells me Melanie is going to be a sheep in her pageant. I tell her that’s so sweet and suppress all feelings of superiority.

We compare dates, and it becomes apparent that Melanie has been cast in her church pageant – the big one, with grown-ups – whereas Anna’s pageant is limited to our little parish school.

Now, I love Wendy. I love Melanie. And yet I seem to have acquired fangs.

In my mind I weigh Mary-in-a-school-pageant versus a-sheep-in-a-church-pageant, and although I am not sure who wins, I know one thing for certain: I now have to find the hideous strength to tell Wendy ours is not a whole school pageant, but just a kindergarten one.

I don’t, in the end, do it. I am a stage mother. I have a reputation to protect.