So tonight, as I sat in Rough Cuts missing Beatrix's bedtime for the umpteenth time and listening to Matt Gould and Carson Kreitzer's beautiful song entitled "Miles," I couldn't help but think of the paradox of theatre and motherhood (well, likely all art and motherhood, but hey, theatre is what I know.)
"Work-life-balance" is a mythical beast in the best of worlds, and there is not a parent I know who feels like they have it pegged. The general conscensus is that if you are keeping your head above water and kind of sucking equally at each, you're doing pretty well. Everyone struggles with this, in different ways depending on what they do.
But I'm going to go out on a limb and say that theatre is especially paradoxical. To make great theatre you have to throw yourself completely into it, in strange and varied hours, and take all the passion that's in you and put it out there on stage. Yet at the same time there's that little person who inherently owns that love and commitment, that can stop you in your tracks, overwhelmed by how much you love them. (and, if you're as lucky as I am there's the father of that child as well, but I digress).
And at the same time you feel that passion divided, you know you are creating the work that you are for that person, to use art to make the world just a little bit better and more meaningful, precisely because that little person is here on the earth.
I still don't know the answer for the missed bedtimes. It breaks my heart when I am not there for her — but I want the work I do to be there for her too.