Fuzzy Broadway

The lights go down. The smattering of spectators applauds and oohs and ahhs. The curtain rises and out runs the cast of the latest off-off-off-off Broadway spectacular, When Elmo Grows Up! I am in the fourth row, S is on my lap. E is between M and me and both children are wide eyed and silent. Big Bird's voice is of a particular pitch and volume that reminds me of fingernails down the chalkboard. E is happily munching his $3 cotton candy that he has been dreaming of since the last Sesame Show we went to. There is dancing, introductions, plot outline.
I am clapping enthusiastically for two reasons. First, I want S and E to really enjoy themselves. E was on the brink of feeling "too cool" for Sesame, and I want to remind him that childhood is a state of mind. Also, I feel bad for these performers, some of whom were shuttled to jazz and ballet from infancy. They majored in this and are now trapped in sweaty, fuzzy fake cactus suits wondering where exactly their lives took this turn. In the same way no one (I suspect) says they want to be a stripper when they grow up, I doubt anyone spent hours of his life daydreaming of becoming Fire Hydrant #2 in the Firefighter number. Although, I don't want to be too cynical. Here they are, entertaining my children for the outrageous price of $24 plus Ticketmaster fees.
My children are transfixed, as are most of those around us. This, at the very least, makes me happy. There is something magical about childhood wonder. Here are their favorite characters brought to them, bigger than life size. That's rare.
Cynicism's back on. The family in front of us is morbidly obese. All four of them. The kids have lost interest in the show after the opening number, and are restless in their seats. They have munched through their $6 cotton candy (large size) and are rummaging through a diaper bag, presumably for more snacks.
S is LOVING the firetruck number. The sirens, the outfits. He's bought in to the whole experience. E is obediently stomping his feet as Big Bird counts.
Intermission.
Here comes the merchandising gauntlet. I run S off to the bathroom to avoid the ridiculously priced sno-cones, cotton candy, plastic licensed crap, and mylar balloons. The vendors are swamped. The children emerging from the scrum seem no more content with their purchases than before they had them. Consumer culture begins early.
S and I return to our seats in time to see the Snuffleupagus-sized family return from concessions. Jumbo Popcorn, Jumbo Cokes, Enormous Pretzel. They are supersized. In about 14 seconds, half the popcorn is on the floor. The children have become unruly. Mom-upagus is trying to control them, but only half-heartedly. She has not stopped eating and uses one hand to shovel popcorn in while trying to wrangle her brat-upaguses with the other. It's revolting.
Elmo welcomes us back with the interstitial Elmo's World, which makes me feel cheated. It feels like a commercial for every one's favorite fuzzy red monster (coincidentally for sale in the lobby) and I want to get back to the plot. For God's sake, what does poor Big Bird want to be when he grows up? All the boy monsters want to be firefighters and police officers and train engineers. And all the girl monsters want to be Spanish teachers and Fairy Godmothers. What is the giant gay canary going to be? What is the gender-stereotyped profession for him?
Actually, the second act wraps up quickly, and without full resolution: Big Bird is assured that he doesn't have to choose what he's going to be until he's grown up and that he should just follow his heart. The trademark Sesame segue for parental discussion. We follow the prompt and engage our boys: E wants to be a paleontologist. S wants to be a truck. Not a truck driver, mind you. A truck. M wants to get the hell out of the parking lot. We boogie out there and pass through the first green light out of the parking lot.
I am left feeling ambivalent (see earlier posts). On the one hand, my kids are exhilarated and excited at having seen the live show with the bright lights, dancing and music. They are momentarily enthralled and young and wide eyed. They have failed to see the gross product merchandising and consumerism of the people around them. They had an hour and a half of magic. On the other hand, I am feeling disappointed. People are becoming increasingly gross to me. Bratty little kids stream out of the Center, arms full of cheap toys that will be broken and forgotten tomorrow. Young faces already distorted by fat glisten with sugar and soda, not as a one-time special treat, but as another opportunity to make demands to have more more more.
Last, I feel a tiny bit nostalgic. So many moms there had two Sesame Street aged kids, and were visibly expecting another. Abby Kadabby, a new monster on Sesame Street was introduced. I realized I haven't even seen an episode with her in it. My children, enamored as they were with the show, no longer watch The Street. We have moved on to Ben 10, Power Rangers; shows with no charm, no ability to evoke that sparkle in my kids' eyes. They are growing up, that is for certain. I hope they keep just a little of that fuzzy Broadway with them.