Over the tips of skyscrapers and a slight OC haze, little Kolby spots the artificial snow of Matterhorn Mountain, “Mommy, is that Disneyland?”
“Yes, sweetheart,” I reply.
“Mommy, I need, I want, I muuuuuust to go to Disneyland. I’m the only kid in the world who’s never been.”
I look in the rearview mirror at her peaked little face and feel a minor prick of guilt. For a year, I took her older siblings (who are now teens) to the happiest place on earth every single stinking weekend with our mega access passes—which is why I now avoid the place like the plague.
(And just for the record, the measles outbreak gave me another good reason to put it off)
Kolby’s bow shaped mouth turns downward and then tightens into a pout. I tread lightly with my response because she’s not feeling well and EVERYTHING is irritating her.
I think hard. We are on our way up to an audition in LA for a commercial for a kids shoe company. I am doing pulling out every trick in my wheelhouse to transform a grumpy and feverish five-year-old into a friendly and outgoing kid actor/model.
But my lullabies and packed cooler full of organic Cheetos and chocolate almond milk are not cutting it in light of her Mickey Mouse depletion.
“Baby, let’s try and book a job this summer and then maybe we can go to Disneyland. It’s pretty expensive.”
Kolby nods. “Ok, I just have to be happy at the audition, right?”
“Yep, just do your best darling.”
The car goes silent. She leans back in her car seat and closes her eyes. The rest of the drive we play “I Spy” and find letters on license plates.
We drive into West Hollywood and I navigate through the crowded roads to the casting agency. Of course there’s no parking—because I always wanted to make a sick child walk a mile to wait in a crowded room for another hour.
I spot a Starbucks and we head around the corner to prep. Inside the store bathroom I change her into a little white floral dress and brush out her long golden locks. On top of her head I gently place a flower crown and sigh with delight.
Her attitude might be a wee bit sour but she looks like a dream.
I grab a drink and we head back over to the audition.
It’s the usual scene—about 50 kids with nannies and handlers and clueless grandpas juggling headshots, iPads and combs. Kolby starts talking with another little girl and I make a mental note of the room.
They are lining up the kids down a hallway. Some go in with parents and some without. When Kolby’s name is called the lady in charge says the casting agents want to see the kids alone.
What? ALONE?
Many bad words come to mind.
Kolby’s eyes grow big and teary. She grabs my leg.
“I don’t want to go in there alone, mommy.” Big tears threaten to slide down her face.
She sets off the other kids in line.
It’s a group MELTDOWN worthy of an Oscar.
Now no one wants to go in alone. The lady glares at me.
The door opens and I grab little Kolby’s hand and push past her.
We walk into a mini American Idol type setting. There are three scowling casting directors behind a table. A hip but harried photographer motions for her to stand in front of a backdrop.
I give her a little encouraging pat and she walks over.
“What’s your name?” the lumber-sexual photographer inquires.
(Oh great, he’s got a beard. My kid is terrified of men with beards)
My little lamb looks at the ground and whispers, “Kolby.”
“Kolby, can you smile for me. I’m going to take a few pictures.”
And my dear child who is generally my biggest ham forces a pained grin that looks far more like disgust than joy.
I want to crawl in a hole.
“Can you give me a big smile?” he cajoles.
Kolby tries again. Now she looks constipated.
“Can you jump?” he asks.
Kolby looks at him and lets out an exaggerated sigh. Her body language screams, I don’t feel well and my mommy dragged me here and now you want me to freaking jump.
I can see the future teenager seed rooting.
She gives a half-hearted leap.
I crawl deeper into the hole of stage-parent shame.
The photographer grabs the shoes and asks her to try them on. She slips them onto her feet.
“Do you like the shoes?”
Kolby pauses. “Not really, they are too big.”
Her tone is pure annoyance.
The casting elite illuminati give me the look—the “You’re wasting our time look and I grab her hand and we shuffle out.”
She smiles the second we leave,
“How did I do Mommy? Can I go to Disneyland now?”
“No baby, I said we needed to book the job first remember? Anyway, you weren’t very friendly sweetheart.
And my five year-old turns on me and yells loudly down the street, “Other kids don’t have to get a job and go to work to go to Disneyland. Anyway, you told me not to talk to strangers and they were scary!”
And I am left both ashamed and stumped at her pre-school logic.
The two buff men heading into the gym in front of us choke up and try not to laugh, but I can hear their snickers and eyes on me as I duck into the car.
And I know it’s one of those mom moments. Make it or break it time.
I feel pulled between caring for my kid’s emotional wellbeing and teaching life lessons to a small person who may not have the ability to hear me in this moment.
How do I explain to my kid that I’m trying to fund her college tuition with her ridiculous cuteness? How do I teach her the value of a hard work ethic and the beauty of delayed gratification as she saves towards a goal? And most of all, how do I teach her to do hard things even when she feels like quitting?
And I realize while those are all things I want to teach her, this is NOT that moment.
I pick her up and cuddle her. “Today was tough. I’m proud of you for trying even though you were sick. Next time if you smile and act friendly even when you are scared mommy will give you $5 to save for Disney.”
I think some more.
“And if mommy introduces you to the person, then they aren’t strangers and it’s ok to be nice.”
She puts her little arms around me and we both sniffle and cling to one another.
Over the next few weeks Kolby works hard on introductions. She learns to say, “Nice to meet you” and hold out her hand for a firm shake.
She practices smiling and posing. We play the casting director game and take turns asking questions.
A month later Kolby books her first modeling gig.
When I share the news with her she screams, “I can’t believe it! Mommy, we are going to Disneyland!”
And I am humbled. The lesson I tried to force she learned all on her own.
This time I will be proud to wear the Mickey ears because I know how hard we both worked to get them.
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I also took fabulous care of my children. I took my son back East for a college recruiting trip and we bonded over BPM music, survived a hurricane and slept in crappy hotels. It was awesome! Ok, I might have helped him a little too much on the college applications, (oops!) but I made him pay for the tires he accidentally spiked when he drove through a gated residential entrance. (See Santa…I’m working hard not to enable!)
Santa, I’ve volunteered at J Serra High School until illness has overtaken me (I lost my voice for 3 weeks!). I’ve worked like a like a dog and sacrificed sleep to these munchkins. I’ve watched 400 freaking episodes of Bernstein Bears, read to my little girl every single night (best part of my day), shopped with my teenagers until I wept from frustration, and I’ve laughed and tickled and cried with each one as life throws its best punches at us.
Five years later…
I know. I know. Someone stop me from bragging. I have diarrhea of the pompous mouth when it comes to my munchkins. But, I’m guessing most parents feel thisway. They love their kids so, so, so much, they simply can’t help themselves.
I also might argue teen girls do this “self-identification” the best. Boys are good but girls are better. Adolescent girls just have a knack for pushing hot buttons.
