When you’re the stage mother, your job is to attend every rehearsal or performance your daughter is in. It doesn’t matter if she’s an extra or in the lead role. You’re there to support her. The rules: always stand and clap at the end. Whistle loudly, the kind of whistle that makes other moms and dads turn their heads. At home, help your daughter memorize her lines. Give your daughter etiquette lessons, so she’ll know the fork goes on the left and the knife goes on the right. Remember the dream you had, to become a famous actress. Wipe tears from your eyes when you see your daughter has already fulfilled this dream. Before rehearsal, make sure her purse is equipped with bobby pins and snacks, a hairbrush and Guerilla Glue. Anything could happen, so it’s your job to be prepared. When she’s tired after a long day, draw her a bubble bath.
The night the fire alarm goes off, and everyone has to evacuate the hotel, get her out before anyone else. Step on toes and shove people so she will be safe. Wrap your robe around her and turn your head away from the blaring sound of the fire alarm. Apologize to the people you pushed earlier.
The time your daughter doesn’t get a starring role and instead must be an understudy, blot her dripping mascaraed eyes with the hem of your shirt. When she’s having a bad day and trips during rehearsal, tell her no one noticed; she did fine. When she says no one will ever be as good as her, tell her she needs to keep practicing.
When your daughter takes the role of a lifetime and must live in a foreign country for three months, go with her. When she drinks too much wine after a long day, and she falls into a canal on the way home, drag her out of the cold water. When she gets sick and has to stay home, bring her tea and Kleenex and tuck her blankets around her. Tell her you’ll reschedule her audition.
At night, go to the moonlit window and gaze at your hands. Never skilled with a needle, all those late-night sacrifices sewing costumes for her until your fingers were pockmarked with blood. Look at your scarred fingers and tell yourself it was worth it.
You’re the stage mother, the one who does everything for everyone else. No one is ever there for you when the hem of your skirt rips, when you’re exhausted and can’t sleep. When you’re the stage mother, it’s your job to endure.