Another Closing Night

As I sit here listening to Alex sing, "Go, go, go 'Jovess' you know what they say... Go, go, go Jo... Go, go, go Jo...," I'm contemplating all the shows I've closed this year.  Way more than I'd have thought humanly possible.  Probably more than was healthy. 

I was reluctant to take on this last show.  It fell into what was supposed to have been my 6 week break.  But its terms - including working with the incredibly talented Bruce Craven - were just too good to pass up.  And that was before I knew I'd be allowed to put together a dream team of the most talented teenage boys I know and help them perform some of the best written-for-guys Broadway out there.

As I watched "my boys" from the audience last night, I felt such a literal swelling of pride.  I'm closer to some of the kids than others.  Some bridge the age gap, and I consider them friends.  To others, I'm more like a mentor, to some strictly a director, and to some even a teacher at school.  (But Perry, if you ever call me "mom" again...)

Yes, I call them "my boys."  But last night, my real boys were there with me, too.  One of my favorite moments of the night was taking my sons backstage to visit "the boys."  Almost immediately, Alex was scooped up onto Warren's shoulders.  Perry was offering to hold Dylan, and Adam was intently watching Luke do his homework. 

I had to pry my sons away to go sit in the audience.  When Roy's wig fell off during Gaston, Alex loudly announced, "That's not Gaston, mom... that's your friend!"  And when I went out to tell the boys what a great performance they'd had, there they were, posed as always waiting for someone to take a picture, Alex front and center.  "Guys, do you want me to move Alex?"  "No!" came the immediate response.  "He's so cute."

"My boys" might be a little loud.  Stupid sometimes.  Totally girl-crazy.  Hungry all the time.  Sometimes I may feel like an awkward cross between babysitter/mom/director/friend and not know whether to scold or join in the shenanigans. Kirk may roll his eyes when a quartet of teenage boys comes and climbs into bed with him.  I may find myself giving out advice one moment and being picked up and carried down the hall in the next.  And I love every minute.

Yeah, the show's over.  But "boys," you're welcome in my home anytime.  Why?  Because if my sons grow up to be like any one of you, I'll be as proud as a mother could be.