Working Mum: And the Nativity Oscar goes to...
By Tabitha Ronson
The Nativity has moved on. Master A has been a shepherd and a star and this year's performance saw him transformed into that seasonal classic - a fish.
Dressed in a blue smock with tinsel fringing and singing along to Disney's Under The Sea from The Little Mermaid, he and his classmates performed a series of shimmies, shake and weaves - more hula than herald angel.
Master A's grandparents had been to see the production the day before, gushing about his performance. Not biased in anyway, of course. I took my seat and waited for the young Olivier, a Gielgud in the making, to take to the stage.
One by one he and his classmates trooped on. Several of his closest friends, the ones we regularly have over on play dates, gave me huge grins, waves and the thumbs up. I snapped and videoed away always keen to capture the moment.
The stage was alive, all the children thoroughly enjoying themselves - all, that is, except Master A. He was doing the bare minimum, going through the motions, no enthusiasm and definitely no star quality. Concerned, I mouthed, "What's wrong?"
He mouthed something indecipherable back in between a half-hearted jazz hands move. I shook my head not understanding. I mouthed again "What's wrong?"
His acting skills went into overdrive with his bottom lip quivering, and tears - squeezed out artfully - rolling down his cheeks. (I'm his mother I can tell if the droplets are genuine or crocodile.)
"You don't love me," he said in a stage whisper, perfectly audible to the audience.
And the Oscar for Best Actor goes to...
Every head in the room swivelled in my direction. I was greeted by piercing cold hard stares.
After the Nativity, I collected Master A. After a little cajoling the truth came out. According to Master A, I was taking more notice of his friends than I was of him during the show hence the Sarah Bernhardt theatrics.
Working Mum, in serious need of questioning her parental skills.