I knew a page in my life was turning.
Last summer, my husband and I took our two sons, Owen and Gabriel, then ages 10 and 8, to see one of their friends perform in a children’s theater production of Aladdin. It was one of those junior shows that only runs for an hour, and it was held inside a small black box theater that holds maybe 70 people.
But if you had watched my kids watch the show —honestly, if you had watched me watch the show — you would have thought this was a Broadway experience. It wasn’t just that the show was excellent, or that their friend was funny, or that the performers seemed to be having so much fun on stage. I suppose I didn’t really know what it was yet, but I knew that something special was happening.
This was only confirmed when, after the show, my younger son, Gabriel, turned to me with the playbill in hand. He showed me a page featuring information about an upcoming audition for Finding Nemo Jr.
“I have to do this,” he said. I could see it in his eyes. This was something that could very well become a big part of his life.
I, of course, had no idea if he would make it into the show. I didn’t — couldn’t — know that, if he did become part of the cast, that would only be the tip of the iceberg when it came to our family’s involvement with the theater. I had no idea on that boiling summer day, as we sat in the blessed air conditioning of the black box, that we were entering into a new community that I now consider a significant part of our family’s collective life.
A couple months later, Gabriel was cast in Finding Nemo Jr. and the drives to rehearsals and hours spent listening to the soundtrack began. The rehearsals were just far enough away from home that I didn’t generally feel like it was worth it to drop him off only to return a couple hours later, so I started to bring my laptop sometimes and just sit in the lobby. I would write and edit while he sang and danced. I also began to get to know other parents who were hanging out during rehearsals — some who, like me, used that time to work, others who chatted with one another, and others who worked on little projects at the theater.
This latter group intrigued me. I’ve long found shared work an especially powerful way to grow in friendship, and I struggle to see a need without wanting to apply my mind and time to meeting it. So, I started asking questions. I soon found myself organizing props, refreshing my hand-sewing skills for costuming needs, and gluing coffee filters together to make a coral reef set piece.
I couldn’t get enough. I’m not an especially crafty or handy person, but these little collaborations brought me so much joy. I loved getting to know other parents whose children were preparing to perform with mine, and I loved the collective effort that spoke of a common interest in beauty and excellence. Before long, I was bringing small projects home, mending and hot gluing while watching a movie or listening to a podcast in the evenings. Owen looked over at me one night and tilted his head, observational in his posture. “The theater has really become a community for you, too, hasn’t it?”
I was equal parts blown away by his astute statement and completely at home inside of it. He was right. His brother’s place — a place that is now Owen’s as well, as Nemo was just the beginning of our family’s participation — had become mine, too.
At this stage in my life, and at this point in time, in an era when loneliness has reached the status of health crisis, perhaps the places where my children are offer the gentlest entry points into friendship. I have precious relationships outside of my kids’ activities, to be sure, but I am learning how to keep my eyes open. I am learning to ask good questions and offer tangible help in the places my children find special. And in doing so, I am finding my own places of belonging.
