Last night we went to see The Wiggles with Mary and Joy. This year, we got priced out of bringing the dads. Then I was powerful jealous when I saw Melissa, Bill and Linda ensconced on the floor in the mosh pit--evidently, joining the fan club is the ticket to VIP status.
Last year, J & J were a bit dazed by the crowds, lights, spectacle and altitude of Cox Arena. This year, they were much more conscious of who they were going to see. Both girls clutched bouquets of Gerber daisies, courtesy of Paul (we had a small miscommunication over what type of flower is Dorothy the Dinosaur's snack of choice) and when I tried to steer Jarrah to the concession stand when we arrived, she gripped my hand and hissed like a 15-year-old, "Do NOT make me miss any of this show!!!"
We twisted, we jumped on one foot, we rock-a-byed our bears. The boys from Down Under did not disappointment. And I was glad to see the new Yellow, Sam, getting some love from the crowd--man, he had some big shoes to fill (literally--I think that Greg is 6 foot 6.) I'll be devastated when the girls become too cool for the Wiggles (though I did spot a couple of teenage groupie-types down on the floor, screaming and fainting with nary a toddler in sight, and that gives me hope.) The Wiggles crowd are sign-carriers--my favorite read "DROPPING OUT OF KINDERGARTEN TO FOLLOW THE WIGGLES ON TOUR!" And I loved when Anthony busted out "My Sharona" on the electric guitar for absolutely no reason. It was like an in-joke to the parents.
I know it's naughty of me, but I did have a fleeting thought as I watched them hurling giant inflatable fruit through a castle window--being a Wiggle is a life sentence of "Vice Parole." There's no way in hell that any of those men can be seen in public smoking, drinking, carousing, perusing questionable periodicals or any of the things that make life so wonderful. Even knowing they're richer than the Queen of England didn't stem my wave of pity for them--one slip, one click of a paparazzo's camera, and they can kiss their livelihood goodbye. That's a lot of pressure.
Jarrah was a bit under the weather today, and couldn't go to school. So I decided to be the super-cool mom and take her out for candy and a movie. Before you judge me, I want to assure you that we didn't come within 20 feet of another person the whole time, and the theater was empty (as I had foreseen.) And she was clamoring to get out. Okay, now you can judge me--I'm bracing myself.
We saw Horton Hears a Who, even though Jessica's incredible review had me forewarned that it wasn't going to knock my socks off. I was glad for the distraction. And Jarrah was glad for any reason to veg in the dark with a lollipop bigger than her head.
Afterwards, I asked her who her favorite character was.
Jarrah: The kangaroo.
Sam: The kangaroo? Really? (The kangaroo is the de facto villain of the piece.)
Jarrah: She was sad because her baby wasn't a good listener.
Sam: (mildly horrified) Yeee-esss. That's true.
Jarrah: Her baby wouldn't listen.
Sam: Is there anyone else you liked?
Jarrah: (concentrating) Horton. He was SOOOO funny!
Okay, Readers. What does it say that Jarrah's favorite character was a reactionary shrew who spends the whole movie yelling at her child and hires some thugs to boil Whoville in oil?
Or perhaps I don't want to ponder that too much.