Cast of Characters: A Christmas Program Story

Tonight was the night for my 6-year old son’s Christmas Program at his after school program. The attendance at the child’s Christmas Program is something that our grandparent’s did, our parent’s did, we continue to do, and generations of the future will do as well. Going hand in hand with the Christmas Program is every parent’s obligation to capture this moment for posterity via video camera (and the child’s unavoidable eventual embarrassment when the video is shown to the first girlfriend/boyfriend to visit the family home). As the show started, I firmly pressed the record button and panned the entire cast of the show. As I moved back and forth over these tiny performers with my camera, I observed through the viewfinder a cast of familiar characters that I can only assume has been present at every single Christmas Program since the dawn of time.

I first observed the Nose Picker. This kid was too busy searching the recesses of his nasal cavity to participate in any meaningful way in the performance. And this particular child was no amateur digital spelunker. This little guy was engaged in some serious and aggressive two-knuckle deep coagulated mucus mining.

My lens meandered to the outside edge of the ensemble and came into contact with the Space Cadet. This kid had absolutely no clue what was going on around him, and was staring at the side wall of the auditorium with a hydroponically cultivated marijuana two-joint gaze. He made none of the expertly choreographed hand motions that accompanied the songs, nor did he appear to know the words to any of the numerous songs. There were times during the program he moved his mouth, but I was unable to distinguish if he was making a futile effort to actually sing some of the songs, or if he was just mumbling incoherently to himself. I could just imagine that this would be the child that would suffer, in the coming spring, a minor concussion caused by a plummeting white stitched missile that beaned him in his half-empty melon while he was watching two ladybugs chew on a leaf rather than playing an attentive right-field on his t-ball team like he was supposed to. I began to experience true sorrow in my heart for this young child as I flashed forward in my mind to his future high school photo that would most certainly have the caption directly below his empty expression “Most Likely to be Livin’ in Oblivion” (please see my previous post by clicking here to see the characteristics of these tortured souls).

I could no longer allow that child’s ill-fated existence to dampen my holiday spirits, and quickly moved the camera only to find an even sadder sight than the Space Cadet: the Drama King/Queen. We all know this child. The poor child has been groomed since before birth to fulfill the failed dreams of a parent that continues to feverishly search for a way to capture at least a sliver of glory by living vicariously through their child in a desperate attempt to escape their current existence that is mired in mediocrity. It started with intrauterine cameras being inserted to capture the perfect fetal photograph to submit for Most Beautiful Zygote, then onto Best Looking Baby in the local newspaper, and several tiring months traveling to toddler talent and beauty pageants around the state. Years of beatings with a spiked stick have resulted in a child that never misses a dance step, maintains perfect posture even while sleeping and has perfected that façade of happiness the parent calls a smile. I easily spotted this child tonight as she maneuvered herself to the middle of the stage even though the show directors had placed her towards the edge of the stage. The child also sang the loudest and had the most demonstrative hand motions of the group, sometimes going so far as to improvise her own hand motions when the other children were following the stage directions as rehearsed. This blatant attempt at one-upping everyone on the stage made me want to punch the little snot in the throat, but I quickly realized that my anger was misguided and my flying-fist-o-fury should be directed at the idiot parent in the back of the room putting her fingers at the edge of her mouth encouraging the child to smile so wide the corners of her mouth touched her ears. As I completed a final pan of the singers with my camera, I smiled to myself as I realized that the remainder of the children appeared to be like my son: putting forth at least a decent effort, knowing some of the words, doing some of the hand motions, and constantly eyeing the back of the room where tables were holding cookies that had been promised to them by their parents if they would just “try their best”. Tis the season!