Bad Parent: Stage Mother
My baby was a cover girl.
by April Peveteaux
May 17, 2007
Soon after, came the second job, then the third. By the fifth gig, my husband and I were in shock. Every month, we flipped through magazines at the stand to see her latest photos. We would look back and forth between the ad and the real deal, smiling our heads off. My mother-in-law's reaction encapsulated what we all were thinking: "We knew she was beautiful, but this proves it!" Even my mother, who is from Oklahoma, where it's illegal to draw attention to yourself, loved going to the newsstand and seeing her granddaughter smiling out at her. Cautionary tales like Drew Barrymore and Jon Benet Ramsey flew out of my head.
Clearly, Esmé had a gift. As long as there was a colorful toy, Esmé was good. She had no idea why people shone a light in her eyes and shook rattles while talking in a maniacally high-pitched voice, but she didn't seem to mind. She could keep smiling after three wardrobe changes under the hot lights of a cold studio. I had never been that patient. I wondered: would she grow up to gain all the fame I never had? What would have come of me if I had gotten such an early start? Had such a supportive mother? I thought of all the times my father would say I should enter the pageant circuit and my mother would respond, "Absolutely not." Watching Esmé enjoy her work, I wondered if I should have been allowed to enter the world of silicone and Vaseline.
Then, we hit the big time: Pampers. Esmé had been fighting a fever for a few days, but that morning she As long as there was a colorful toy, Esmé was good.seemed back to her happy-go-lucky self — until we got to the audition. In the waiting room, she began to look not so good, and I don't mean her hair. She was shaking, and her lips and cheeks were purplish blue. (I would later find out this was a fever spike.) I was trying to get a read on whether the fever was back or if this was an allergic reaction, when the coordinator approached me to ask, "Are you okay?"
I looked down at Esmé. If I answered, "Yes" and brought my shivering daughter into the room, I would be casting myself in a future memoir, Mommie Dearest Redux. If I left, we would miss a big opportunity and risk being labeled flaky. I went with flaky. I wrapped up my daughter and said, "No."
On our way home from the doctor's office, where Esmé was treated for an ear infection, I wondered if I'd crossed the line into psychotic stage mother. Sure, in the past I'd cancelled my baby's playgroup so she could be rested and ready for an afternoon shoot, but this time I'd actually taken her to a casting call even though she was sick. I wondered if that was a sign that it was time to quit. She'd made more than $2,000 (enough that she had to pay taxes before her first birthday), and she'd had a four-month run in one national magazine. My husband and I had long discussions about what would be best for her. But in the end, it didn't matter how we felt about it. After we skipped that Pampers audition, we never heard from Esmé's agent again.
©2007 April Peveteaux and Nerve Media
About the Author
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April Peveteaux is a writer, editor and sometimes performer. She lives in Brooklyn with her husband, son and daughter. |
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