Princess and the Arachnid

There’s a phrase they use in theater that I’ve always found fascinating – “playing against type.” It’s when an actor, who is known for their roles in one kind of part, plays the opposite. Like when Robin Williams dropped the wackiness and played a doctor in Awakenings.

I’m trying to keep this phrase in mind now that Mireya has her first speaking part in the school play.

First, let me say, that anyone who decides to have a play with sixty first graders deserves some sort of medal of honor - after they return from a long trip to the Bahamas. I’m still amazed that they get that many children through the lunch line in school, let alone through stage direction in the auditorium.

But I was shocked when Mireya came home with her role. She had been completely confident that she’d have a speaking part, due largely to the fact that she can read.

So I was anticipating something interesting, but not too demanding.

Mireya is the spider.

My shock had nothing to do with the role. In fact, the role of the spider isn’t a bad role at all. From what I gleaned, her character undergoes a transformation from bad to good. And many great actresses excel as villains. Plus she is going to have the coolest costume ever, thanks to Grammy and a few black socks.

No, it was the enormous irony of the role. Mireya is terrified of spiders.

Run-screaming-from-the-room-from-even-microscopic-spiders terrified.

Yet now she’s going to be a GIGANTIC spider (as spiders go).

“Wow. You’re going to be the spider?”

“Yes.” She looked at the script a bit skeptically, as if it might grow legs right in front of her.

“That’s really great! You think this will help you not be afraid of spiders anymore? I mean, you’ll kind of have to get in touch with your… inner spider.”

She looked at me as if I’d lapsed into Swahili. “Um, no, mommy.”

“Oh. Okay.”

A few days later following her costume fitting, she made it clear she’d gotten more excited about her part.

“You know what is so cool about my part in the play?” she said.

“What?”

“I have more arms than anybody!”

Which begs the question: do you tell a 1st grade spider to break one leg before the big night, or two?

(Mireya after her successful debute)

The Saga of Sticky.

It’s incredible what comes to life for kids. Stuffed animals have long and complex stories, dolls have personalities on par with stars of daytime soap operas, and favorite blankets can get their feelings hurt by the mere mention of the words “washing machine.”

Still, even with all that, I wasn’t prepared for Sticky.

It started with what had been the rejected tube of toothpaste, the “too spicy!” toothpaste that I had tossed back in the drawer months ago. But that night we were completely out of the preferred toothpaste. My number one rule: desperate times call for creative re-marketing.

As I pulled off the cap on the new “cool” big girl toothpaste, I peeled off something somewhat pliable and sticky at the same time – the little bit of blue toddler toothpaste that had dried in the cap of the tube. About the size of a playground pebble, it had the consistency somewhere between dried chewing gum and fresh playdoh.

Mireya, four at the time, began playing with it idly, and as we finished up getting ready for bed she carried it off.

Then she named it. Sticky was born.

Then she needed a house for it. Sticky got a plastic Ziploc bag, since we determined it didn’t breathe and therefore could be placed in a sealed bag.

Before we knew it, Sticky was a small, yet active member of the family. Sticky came to breakfast. Sticky hung out at story time. Sticky watched movies, no doubt dreading the moments when large waves of water were featured. Sticky even rode to school a few times.

Then, like all precious things of childhood, Sticky got lost.

“STICKY!” Mireya cried out. “I can’t find Sticky!”

Sticky was indeed gone. We searched everywhere, even tried to recreate a sort of “Son of Sticky” by leaving out some beads of toothpaste to dry for a few hours.

“It smears,” said Mireya with disgust, blue streaks appearing on the bathroom counter. “It’s not Sticky.”

Then, in a miracle only partially explained by the rarely performed act of “cleaning our room,” Sticky reappeared from under the bed.

Sticky was resting, I was told.

Someday Sticky will be really lost, lost to a world where stuffed animals turn into inanimate objects and dried toothpaste is just trash.

But for now, I love that little bit of blue.

Long live Sticky.