Which means that I had to get really clever, myself.

My daughter, the method actress, is enamored with Into the Woods.

We act out scenes from the musical every day, rotating parts; We watch clips from the movie and the staged version on Youtube and the XBox1; We sing every song.

So I know that she is completely obsessed

and with knowledge comes power.

You see, I have this insight because I am also a crazy musical theatre fan, and throughout my life, since I was two years old, I have been Dorothy, and Eponine, and Maureen and Amneris and Catherine and oh so many more characters that have gotten under my skin in a way that is impossible to describe to anyone who doesn’t know the feeling. It’s just one of those things.

This morning, I woke up at 10 after 7, when the baby let out his first cry of the day.

I got up slowly, bundled up in a hooded sweatshirt and when I opened my bedroom door and walked into the hallway I was greeted by a small girl with a large blanket, a makeshift cape around her shoulders and a hood on her head, skipping around.

“Oh, hell0,” said the girl. “I’m just on my way to my grandmother’s house but I seem to keep finding a wolf who actually looks like a man and he has candy.”

(At least she finally wised up and chose a better part than the “Baker Baby”.)

“And then, as I was getting a bouquet for granny, I heard Jack in the distance!” she continued.

So, we walked together into the baby’s room, and when we saw us, he flung himself down, theatrically, onto his back, so that he was sprawled out, crying in his crib. This is presumably because:

1. His daddy has been sick since Thursday (more on that, later), and my son misses him as he has been out of commission

and

2. I have two incredibly dramatic children.

Truth be told, I am tired. It is hard taking care of two children alone, all day, for many days in a row (mad props to all of the people who do this every day; I am in awe of single parents, parents and caregivers whose partners work long hours and anyone else who is tasked with this job regularly).

When we finally got the baby up and changed, the three of us headed downstairs for breakfast. As I was preparing the baby’s milk, the kids’ meals and trying to take care of the dog, I asked my daughter if she could bring Lola’s bowl over to me.

“Okay,” she started, “But let’s pretend that you didn’t really ask me to get Milky White his food but you just turned around and I was there with the bowl for Milky White’s food, like I thought of it on my own, and then you can say ‘Thank you, Little Red’. Can we do that?”

All the world’s a stage.

“Sure.”

So instead of having to run around like a chicken with my head

(or a maiden in a tower with her hair)

cut off, I was able to use a little creativity and the magic of musical theatre–something that has been so important to me in my life–something that I now see being so important to my daughter–to actually make life a little bit easier.

Little Red was happy to show The Wolf into the other part of the Woods, The Baker’s Wife was uncharacteristically allowed to leave the room for a second (because, spoiler alert: The Baker’s Wife does end up leaving) and Little Red was happy to let the dog in and out of the house (although it took Lola a bit longer to realize that she was supposed to come when she was being called “Milky White”).

All of this sounds great, and it was great, but I will admit one thing: While I figured out a way to occupy my daughter, who, in turn, entertained my son, I was spending time using a microplane to grate fresh carrot over Lola’s food.

One step at a time, I say.

(And, you know, it is very hard to take steps when there is pitch on the stairs.)

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Somewhere, over the rainbow,
way up high,
there’s a land that I heard of,
once in a lullaby.
If the Sex and the City ladies are my best adult girlfriends,
then Dorothy and the Wizard of Oz gang were my dear childhood playmates.
You see,
for me,
The Wizard of Oz was more than a film.
More than a musical,
or the first colorful movie to light up the screen.
When I was a toddler,
The Wizard of Oz was my life.
I watched this movie every day,
twice a day.
My mom was no longer “mom”.
She was Scarecrow .
My dad was no longer “dad”.
He was Tin Man.
And, of course,
I was Dorothy.
Ms. Gale, if you nasty.
You see, not only would I watch the movie,
I would live the movie.
I knew every song by heart,
and would spout out each line from memory.
Naturally, when I was pregnant,
my husband and I took my daughter to see the ruby slippers at the Smithsonian.
She was in my belly, of course, but I’m sure she stared,
with wonder,
nonetheless.
She is my daughter, after all.
And now, it comes as no surprise that her favorite song just so happens to be “Somewhere Over the Rainbow”.
How do I know this,
you ask?
I mean, she does blab, and all,
but it’s not always so easy to translate.
I know that it is her favorite, because not only does she smile and coo and kick her legs when I sing this song,
but she opens her mouth wide, cranes her little neck, and tries to actually sing along.
And no, this is not just me being crazy.
She tries to sing.
Which makes my heart sing.
When I watch her eyes light up,
as I sing her this story of my childhood,
I can’t help but to picture a future of dress-up and dancing and Dorothy, Oh My!
It feels right.
It makes me so happy that I could just click my heels.
I think you get the picture.
I look forward to many trips to Oz together.
Although, does this mean that now she gets to be Dorothy?
Oh well,
as long as I still get to wear my ruby slippers,
it’s all good.

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