If a stage mom is as Wikipedia describes a stage mom, then I am the opposite of that. The Anti-Stage Mom.

DD (age 11) is taking an introductory acting class at one of the universities nearby. Each Tuesday afternoon, I leave work early, pick up DD, drive over to the university and sit for an hour when DD is in class with children whose parents believe they are the child prodigies of Oklahoma City.

While many of the other moms sit around looking like prom queen/cheer leaders, going on with exuberance about the wonders of their precious gifted child, I usually look like the tired, frazzled, been at work since the crack of dawn, single mom that I am.

Really, I’m just happy to have an hour to myself to read a book without interruption. ONE HOUR!

It’s so peaceful.

Wonderful.

One of my favorite hours of the entire week.

Until one of the prodigies’ 2 year old brother hits me in the head with a Nerf ball and his bouffant haired, cleavage showing, stiletto heeled, way too much make-up wearing mom starts raving about his athletic ability.

Please.
Spare.
Me.

I just want to read in peace.

He’s not Joe Namath. He’s a kid. A normal kid. Just like his big brother who’d rather pretend to be Spiderman than show you what pantomime means.

No matter how many times you say it slowly… pant – o – mime… he just wants to shoot pretend webs out of his wrists.

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