Blog by Help! We’ve Got Kids Daddy Blogger, Brett Hughes
“I thought I was learning about show business. The more painful it was, the more important I thought the experience must be. Hating it, I convinced myself it must be invaluable.”
–Minnie Pearl
My 10-year-old son is a budding star.
His parents are an anxious mess of nerves, uncertainty and exhilaration.
Nobody said show biz would be easy, but somebody really should have provided me with a brochure, or a fact sheet, or at least a solid stockpile of sedatives.
After a couple of gruelling rounds of auditions, taking his best stage game against hundreds of aspiring and often star-struck children, he landed a major role on a television show.
Three episodes guaranteed!
A national audience!
A wide selection of pastries in the dressing room! PASTRIES!!!
As it turned out, the auditions and waiting for the call from his agent were the easy parts of this process for us parents: who knew how much of our own childhood baggage my wife and I would bring to this?
Full disclosure: I could or should have been a performer of some stripe or another. My missed dreams haunt me with regularity. I enjoy the buzz of a full house and I love the internal rush of hitting performance sweet spots, whether it’s cracking a resonant joke or making an audience roar with delight.
Yes, the duh-obvious psychoanalysis is sure to uncover my tendency to push my son to fulfill my own lapsed dreams. In practice, it hasn’t worked this way. The boy pushes himself in directions that have nothing to do with my influence. Consider that against my strongest advice, he wore a white suit to the audition: he must have absorbed some wisdom from one of either Tom Wolfe or Colonel Saunders about the social value of the white suit. Hey, can’t argue with success.
Full disclosure II: my dad pushed me relentlessly to fulfill his lapsed dream of professional hockey. He had a cup of coffee with Father Bauer of Toronto Maple Leaf folklore back in the 1950s that must have cemented in his mind the idea of his son playing in the big leagues (keep the lyrics flowing, Tom Cochrane). At 5’10 and 145 pounds soaking wet on a full stomach and needing a haircut, the pro hockey dream for me was probably doomed from the start. But the experience left me acutely sensitive to matters such as when to push and when to let off the gas concerning my son’s interests and aptitude.
On the other hand, there’s my dear wife. Her childhood experiences with boundary-pushing were the exact opposite of mine. At the first sign of trouble (“Mom, I don’t know anyone at figure skating and my hair gets wet!”), she was given a ready and sympathetic out. Pushing her hard just didn’t happen. I think she resents this now as an adult, but it definitely informed her perspective on how to manage our son’s ambitions and various interests. She is beyond vigilant about protecting his sensitive personality from all manner of pain.
I like to think that if there is a continuum of parenting worldviews, with Toddlers and Tiaras being one (awful) extreme and hiding in the closet the other, we’ve covered the best of all possible worlds in our collective parental perspective.
Having said that, we weren’t ready for the ultimate of curveballs: my son came down with a severe case of near-existential stage fright two days before taping the first show.
It wouldn’t have been such a big deal had it occurred early in the process, but we had already done an elaborate back-and-forth dance with the production company over the contract, demanding some significant changes before we agreed to its terms (N.B.: For anyone about to sign one of these: read it very closely and consider the implications of what you’re signing up for. The words “in perpetuity in this universe and any newly-discovered universe” actually appear in these contracts. I guess it’s crucial to cover revenue-generating potential by ensuring products with my kid’s face on them are sold to the adoring creatures living on Nebuland-5?)
It was a delicate conversation with my son, as I explained that nervousness about performing in front of an audience and cameras is very normal. I worried about his fears, but I also worried about the legal implications of backing out of the gig at essentially the last minute.
This was supposed to be a fun way for my son to grow and experience a new challenge. While my wife was quick to emphasize that he could decide to opt out, my instinct was to talk him through the fearful moment while still reinforcing that he had made a firm commitment to participate (see what I mean about bringing our own unique childhood baggage to the issue?).
In the end, we both pointed out that the show selected him ahead of many others for a good reason and that he had obviously showed them something worthy of the work. He slept on his nerves and woke up the next day fully committed to the task at hand, but not before extracting from us the promise of a late-evening mug of hot chocolate with marshmallows. Shrewd, this boy.
Whew! A wonderful opportunity for my son comes to fruition AND no lawsuit for breach of contract!
Come show time, it was my turn for the nerves. Sitting with my son backstage, I couldn’t control the flock of butterflies unleashed in my gut. I could only put on a brave face, give him a big hug, and offer a few affirmative fist bumps.
I’m thrilled to report he was a smashing success in his role, so much so that he was offered an entire season’s worth of episodes.
I sure hope the yet-to-be-discovered humanoids on Nebuland-5 enjoy the show and buy the themed lunchbox. I know I’ll be watching through the fog of my teary eyes. Or maybe that’s just the effect of the sedatives…
The above image is of Brett (rather than his son), at age 13. He’s the one in the middle, showing off his jazz hands.
