So far we've taken Katie to three auditions for television commercials. Our good friend Sue is a casting director and every now and then, she calls us up whenever they're gonna film a commercial with a little kid in it.

Now, it's kind of a fun and special thing to go down and try out to be on TV, but our kid is not a girly girl. She hates barrettes and rubber bands and she's always scratched up from bug bites and scraped knees and she insists on picking out her clothes even though she has even less fashion sense than me (or her dad, for that matter).

TV is glamorous and Katie is not glamorous. Darling, somewhat of a rascal, definitely friendly and sweet, but not glamorous.

So we go in for an audition today and since I had other errands to run today and didn't have six hours to get Katie to sit still long enough to have her hair brushed, she looked a little scruffy. (I think we're gonna be okay, though, as Sue said to have Katie dressed casually, like she was going shopping at The Store. Can I say the name of the company? It rhymes with Comb Weepo.)

As soon as I walk in, I realize that there are eight or ten little girls in there, all with perfect hair and tailored suits and portfolios and mothers on their cell phones with their agents. These are obviously eight-year-old professional actresses who do these auditions at least once a week. I think to myself that these girls and their families must be totally together to handle school, modeling and acting careers, and certainly things like piano, karate, and soccer practices.

It's kind of impressive, really. A trip to the corner market to get some eggplant can wipe me out for the day.

Then I look at my daughter.

She's walking around with her hand in her mouth (her nervous tic), her hair is still a mess, and her pants are too big and falling down. I tell her to come sit down next to me because she might annoy the lady at the desk (who looks as if she's got plenty of 'annoy' already).

Over the next ten minutes, I realize that I am essentially chanting, "Katie. Katie. Katie. Katie. Come over here, Katie. Katie. Katie. Get your hand out of your mouth, Katie. Pick up your shoes, Katie. Katie?"

Meanwhile, Zachary is starting to scream. Poor Zac has been in his Snugli™ carrier for at least 40 minutes (because his mother can't read a map and kind of got a little lost) and is understandably not happy. I need to walk up and down the hall to calm him.

And in the three seconds it takes me to traverse the hall, Katie finds a corner to sit in and starts talking to herself.

Things start getting positively chaotic in the waiting room. Moms and kids and "moms" and "dads" (folks auditioning to play parents of kids that are most likely not going to be their kids) are pouring in faster than they can deal with them. By the time Katie is called, they decide to double the number of kids in the session to alleviate some of the backlog (and also because of the aforementioned soccer practice).

Picture it. Three glamorous blonde 6- to 8-year-olds with agents and resumes... and one scrappy local girl. Tommy Hilfiger she's not — more The Jungle Book.

So as fun as this exercise was (Katie enjoyed it, and was thrilled to score an Icee™ on the way home for her trouble), and as glad as I am for the opportunity... I'm perhaps also somewhat relieved that my kids probably won't become Hollywood superstars.

Posted by: aunty kreeesty at March 4, 2003 01:29 AM

Posted by: lisa at March 4, 2003 08:15 AM

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