I Don’t Know How She Gives Script Notes from Great Wolf Lodge

About this Artist Caregiver

I’m a thirty-seven-year-old white female. I work full-time as a producer at LORT A and B theatre in the Midwest and am also a freelance director. I care for two kids age two and four with my husband, who is an emergency medicine doctor.

Village:

We have full-time daycare, 9 a.m.-5:30 p.m. My parents live 15 minutes away and my siblings live in town within a thirty-minute drive. My husband’s mother visits approximately monthly.

Financial Impact:

I attend previews and openings at the theatre where I’m a producer; I also feel obligated to attend a certain number of shows in town. My parents and siblings are sometimes able to help care for the kids, but we rely on babysitters for many of these evenings. Each time we do, it’s at least $100. Daycare is about $4,000 a month.

I was recently a semi-finalist for an artistic director search at a major regional theatre, and some of the feedback I received was that my directing resume had noticeably slowed down in the last four years. Since the birth of my first kid (four years ago), I’ve intentionally committed to directing one show outside of my producing job per year. This is because a) my job as a producer is significant and I want to be good at it, b) the financial cost of babysitters adds up, and c) there’s an emotional cost to missing bedtime.

I stand by the choices I’ve made—I do believe they’ll serve us in the long-run—but I wholly admit to yearning sometimes for the careers of my graduate school classmates who I see directing back-to-back shows around the country.

Diary

Friday

Our family has decided to take a vacation to the Wisconsin Dells. I take two days off from my producing job, which means we’re traveling on a workday, but technically I’m on paid time off (PTO).

After schlepping all things required to take a family vacation into the car, I receive a text message from one of my all-time favorite artistic directors. He inquires whether I’m available and interested in directing next season. The show is at the top of my dream directing list; I am elated. I reassess the dates. The artistic director has warned that the schedule is funky. Rehearsals span over two months. My oldest is starting kindergarten next year… I cannot be gone during his first months at his new school. I also can’t be gone from my producing job for that long. My heart sinks. I know the answer, but I ask him how long I can take to make the decision. He gives me until the end of the week.

My husband asks me to be present and not on my phone. “You’re on PTO this week, right?” he asks rhetorically. He’s right.

I pick up my phone again an hour later to input driving directions. A notification glances across my screen. I click on it. The tone of the work email is urgent. I start furiously typing a response—I can’t have someone mad at me. The agent who reached out is confused about facts that I, as producer, can easily set straight! Just give me five minutes and… my husband sighs in disappointment. He’s a doctor at the emergency room. He gently inquires, “Is this actually an emergency?” Sometimes it is, sometimes it isn’t. This time it isn’t. I put my phone away, but the tenor of the email gnaws at the corners of my conscience as I try to stay present for the rest of our drive.

We get to our destination in time to enjoy all there is to explore at Great Wolf Lodge. The kids are adorable in their floaties; they smile ear-to-ear with pride for traversing all of the water slides by themselves! It’s beyond adorable to see our four-year-old catching the two-year-old at the bottom of each one. “Don’t worry mom, I got him!” he calls. Big kid! I try hard not to think about the germs from the diaper-infested waters.

When we return from this trip, I’ll be in rehearsal for a workshop of a new musical. I wasn’t able to read the act one edits before we left for vacation, so I promised the writers I’d get them notes as soon as possible. I gave my husband a heads up that after we put the kids to bed I’d need to read the most recent draft. I huddle in the corner of the hotel room, curled up next to a small table lamp I’ve relocated to the floor furthest from my sleeping family. Back against the hard popcorn stucco wall, I squint at the printed pages of the script. When I’m finished, I move to the bed where I quietly type up notes on my laptop while our four-year-old peacefully chortles next to me.

Saturday

Another awesome day at the park and exploring the vast town of Wisconsin Dells. It’s actually a very strange place, not vast at all, but it’s a good halfway point between our house and my mother-in-law’s. The kids are happy. My husband is getting to live his childhood dream. Great. That’s all that matters.

I’ve been leaving my phone in the hotel room to ensure I’m present with the family. That afternoon when I return for naptime, I see the writers already sent act two. What? How? Impressive! I tell them I’ll aim to repeat last night’s work and get them notes by the next day.

By 9:00 p.m. it’s clear that isn’t happening; they’re chill. I’ll get to it later. I go straight to bed.

Sunday

Again, I’m trying to be present and not on my phone while on the vacation, but I’ll note that I successfully read act two of the musical and respond to the writers via text message at dawn. Both kids and my husband slumber while I page through the second act and jot down notes. I press “send” at 6:00 a.m. as my two-year-old’s eyes flutter open. I’m successful in keeping my phone plugged in and away for the rest of our visit.

Monday

First day back at work and I’ve met my deadline for the artistic director who sent me the interest and availability inquiry. I have a clear answer: I can’t be away from my producing job or my family for that long. Nonetheless, it’s still painful to pick up the phone and make the call. Will he ever reach out again? He texts me a promise that he will.

I work furiously all morning catching up on emails and am interrupted by an alarm I’ve set for noon: a reminder that I must sign up at exactly the stroke of 12:00 if I want our four-year-old to be enrolled in Little Sluggers T-Ball. I sign on. I’m two minutes late because I can’t remember the password. It’s 12:04 by the time I’ve recovered it, and we’re put on a waiting list. Who on earth are these other moms!?

My producing job is pretty relaxed this afternoon. I’ve read a script and responded to emails, but nothing is on fire. So I take the opportunity to scoop up my four-year-old from pre-K a little early and take him skating—his favorite activity! A little one-on-one mom time before I’m gone the next several evenings. He happily belts along to the Pout Pout Fish soundtrack as we drive.

The moment we arrive at the rink, I get a call. An actor has dropped from the workshop. My four-year-old waits for me outside the car with his little hockey skates slung over his shoulder. They’re half his size. I stare at him waiting patiently through the windshield. I could try to solve this now, or I could learn from last week’s vacation. Be present, girlfriend. I respond to the casting director’s options; I’m happy to defer to her and will follow up after the kids go to bed.

Tuesday

At morning daycare drop-off, I’m reminded that I’ve forgotten diapers for the second day in a row. It’s awfully hard to keep up with Microsoft Teams, my work and personal email addresses, text messages, all the rapid response signal chats (because of the continued presence of Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) in our city), and the daycare app, I try to explain. Is it crazy to call my parents and ask if they can drop diapers off? Wait, they’re out of town until Saturday. There’s gotta be a closet full of back-up diapers, right? I promise I’ll bring them tomorrow.

Producing work is busy today, and any moment of free time I get, I spend prepping for the workshop. Early afternoon, I get a MealTrain reminder that I’ve signed up to bring soup to a family affected by ICE. Shoot. I have to be at design run for my producing job later this afternoon. It was rescheduled. I call my husband who has risen from his daytime sleep after a night shift at the emergency room. He graciously agrees to pick up the soup and deliver it to the family that afternoon. Hero. I get home from the design run at 7:00 p.m. Bedtime is 7:30pm, which gives me thirty minutes with the kids before I dive into the workshop for the rest of the week.

Wednesday

Super mom move: I decide to exercise this morning. Take me on, world! Twenty-five minutes into my morning stationary bike ride, my two-year-old patters downstairs in his footie pajamas. He asks to hold my hand. While adorable, this doesn’t quite work… after three minutes, I clip out. Still counts as a win. While I didn’t complete the full session, I did get some exercise! With his little hand in mine, we head upstairs for cereal.

“Pack diapers,” my calendar notification dings at 8:00 a.m. I remember to check the daycare app, and, right, it’s Wednesday. That means it’s our four-year-old’s turn to bring a game to teach the rest of his class. I ask him “Oh, what about Duck Duck Grey Duck?” He replies, “No.” We dig in our game drawer and find a Richard Scarry memory card game. This seems to satisfy his expectations.

At work that morning I receive a message from the Brightwheel Daycare app (yes, I am intentionally checking this more frequently now). Turns out I dropped off our four-year-old with two left boots and forgot his snowpants. “Please bring boots of the left and right variety and snowpants tomorrow, thanks!” the message reads. Excellent.

I leave my producing job midday for the workshop. We read through the musical for the first time ever! It’s thrilling. It’s also three-and-a-half hours long. Whoops, we might’ve overwritten this thing! I text my husband. “Hi so sorry, it’s going to be a late night.” He sends back a video of our kids brandishing brooms while dancing to “It’s A Hard Knock Life” in our kitchen. They’re perfect.

The writers, music director, and I decide to meet after rehearsal to cut the show down. We stay at the theatre until we’re kicked out. We walk to a nearby bar. Script pages are splayed across the table, smeared with parmesan and drops of ketchup from the pile of fries we’ve devoured over joyful laughter, deep discussion, and vigorous slashing of pages. At 12:45 a.m., act one revisions are finally complete!

Thursday

I get the kids to school (left and right boot this time, with snowpants shoved in the bottom of his kid-sized tote bag) and start the workday again at my producing job. I attend a meeting in person, respond to some emails, and join a Zoom. I’m a little sleepy, but I’m lucky: work is good, and I’m energized by the thought of diving back into work on the musical.

I drive fifteen minutes to the other theatre. We’re on a roll. It’s a terrific room of actors, and I am living for this artistic collaboration. Act two progress is steady. It’s clear, though, that it’s going to be another late night. We head to another bar and, this time over waffle fries, chicken fingers, and an excessive amount of ranch dressing, we resume hacking away at the second act. The music director and I both have young kids. We laugh on the way out that we’re getting too old for these late nights!

When I get home, I sneak upstairs to kiss the kids goodnight. My two-year-old drowsily holds my head in his hands. What is on his left hand? He is apparently asleep with one mitten. I try to slide it off his little hand. He mumbles sharply “No! My mitten!!” I relent and struggle to put the tiny knit mitt back on his thumb properly.

He pulls my head to his and nuzzles his perky little nose against mine. He asks, “Snuggle me?” I get a rush of oxytocin and promise I’ll do so for two minutes. The next morning, I realize I must have fallen asleep next to him and spent the night in his little Montessori bed on the floor.

Reflections

Spotlight on artistry:

The workshop was a success! I’m delighted, grateful to the team, and so very proud. On the day of the workshop presentation, my husband oriented the babysitter and took care of the kids for the evening. He arrived to the presentation fully dressed in a cow suit (the musical takes place on a farm). I love him for it entirely.

The artistic director publicly committed to producing the piece. We have much work still to do before a full production, but I make sure to appreciate the present. When my kids are in college and life is a little bit slower, I’ll look back on these days fondly. Balancing this life with kids is, quite frankly, impossible, but every day I’m reminded that I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Spotlight on support systems and resources:

When I got pregnant, we moved back to my hometown intentionally, knowing how much we’d rely on family. My parents and siblings happened to be out of town this week, but they are often the ones we ask for help in a pinch. They are an essential part of raising the kids. We are so lucky to be surrounded by their presence and love.

My husband is heroic. He’s known my desire to be in artistic leadership since we started dating in college, and he has been a gentle, steady, and loving thought-partner every step of the way. He valiantly handles bedtimes while I’m in rehearsals, takes on extra shifts when things like our furnace breaks, and has worked his schedule in the emergency room to ensure he’s present for most breakfasts and dinners with our kids.