When I tell Westley it's time to leave "in five minutes," he doesn't protest. On the contrary, actually. He has started responding, "Thank you, five."
Yes, like we're backstage and I'm the Stage Manager.
Which, I suppose, I kind of am. As well as all the technical crews. I'm not exactly sure who the director is, though. (Were you thinking God? I totally want a wireless headset that connects me to God.)
While I'm with Westley, I'm always thinking about costume changes, prop usage, and especially entrances and exits. Exits - better known as "it's time to go now"s - are certainly the hardest. Despite Westley's polite acknowledgement of ten- and five- and two- and one-minute warnings, when I make it clear that we really are going now, he is instantly, entirely miserable. Screaming, red-faced, tears-streaming miserable.
That's when I feel my job title shift. From "Stage Manager of The Westley Show" "Mommy" to "The Enemy of Fun." Westley was having a perfectly lovely time, and I had to come along and spoil it. Because I wanted to get to the grocery store before lunchtime. Or because I was starting to feel wrong about spending an hour at our friendly neighborhood toy store with no intention of buying anything. Or because I really had to pee.
So I pick Westley up and hold him close, simultaneously carrying him and hugging him while he screams. I speak as calmly as I can, trying articulate how I think he must be feeling; "You don't want to leave. You were really having fun!"
Meanwhile, inside myself, I'm guilty and uncertain. Wavering. Did you really have to take him away? He was having so much fun! We'll be fine without hemp milk for one more day.
But you don't understand! He was showing no sign of ever getting done with those drums. And I have to pee so bad my back teeth are swimming!
Selfish.
Ouch, self.
But being The Enemy of Fun does make me feel selfish. It's my job to set the limits and give the five-minute warnings, and sometimes (often) I make the "time to go" call because I'm done. I know I can't give Westley everything he wants, and it wouldn't be good for him if I could. He could play for hours in a new or exciting environment, but that doesn't mean he should. My Stage Manager self knows this. But stepping in and ending Westley's joyous playtime never feels good.
So I suppose that even though enforcing "time to go" can feel selfish (even if we really do have to go), it's fairer than it feels. The Enemy of Fun doesn't have any fun either.
