Yesterday we went to see Into the Woods, which was being staged by the Alameda Children’s Musical Theater. (Because we will see any production of any Sondheim play. Period.)
“You know this is a cast of kids, right?” I warned as we walked over to the theater. “Ages seven through seventeen, it says on the website.”
“Sure,” said Gene.
“I think we’re going to have to pretend to be the parents of a kid who auditioned and wasn’t cast,” I said.* “Our little…Thornton. Thornton Mogwimple.”
“Should we refer to each other as Mr. and Mrs. Mogwimple?”
“Yes. Except I shall call you just Mogwimple, like in a Jane Austen novel.”
“Maybe our kid’s name is Thnornton.”
“No. That’s definitely wrong.”
“Thnornton would have played that role much better than this clown. Our Thnornton was robbed.”
“Stop it, Mogwimple!”
*Marvel for a moment that I could easily be the parent of a seven year old. OR A SEVENTEEN YEAR OLD.