TheLastStraw: There was great excitement at home recently when we learned that our seven-year-old daughter had landed the role of Mary in her school nativity play. It couldn't have been a bigger thrill if the news had been announced to us by the Angel Gabriel, rather than a note in Roisin's schoolbag. Either way, with only two weeks before the show, we didn't have time to ponder the great mystery of why we had been chosen.
The excitement survived even the discovery that the part involves a total of two lines. When Mary and Joseph arrive in Bethlehem, Roisin has to remark: "Ta me tuirseach" (it's a Gaelscoil production). Then she's not heard from again until the three wise men show up with the presents. It's true what they say: there are very few good roles for women in the theatre.
Still, there's a lot of stage time involved, and plenty of character development. After all, between her speaking parts, Mary becomes the mother of God (sorry if you haven't seen the play yet - I may have given the plot away there). This is a dramatic twist by any standards. Roisin's challenge will be to capture the turbulent emotion Mary must feel, and to put some of this into her second and final line, which is: "Go raibh maith agat." It's worth recalling, as I discovered while researching the part, that the Bible compresses most of the story into a single sentence: "And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them at the inn." So if that was enough to launch the centuries-old nativity play tradition, imagine what you can do with two lines.
At any rate I'm advising Roisin to maximise the role by getting into character between now and Christmas, with the method-acting technique. I've explained that this will involve her being saint-like for 24 hours a day: doing her homework early, avoiding fights with her six-year-old brother, eating all her vegetables, and so on. Above all, she must practice her lines, especially "Tá mé tuirseach", which I'm suggesting she say at 8.30 every evening before going straight to bed. You never know, it might become a habit.
As a father, incidentally, I'm very relieved that the script glosses over certain aspects of the story. The dreaded question: "Daddy, what's an immaculate conception?" is one that, in common with most male parents, I'd prefer to put off for another - say - 20 years. Like the shepherds in their fields, I was sore afraid at the prospect. And, lo, I was even ready to tell Roisin to go unto her mother and ask. Hopefully this won't be necessary.
I don't remember us ever having a nativity play in my national school. The big theatrical outing was the annual St Patrick's night concert, and the thing I'll always remember about this was the way our shirts, or anything white, became luminous on stage. I knew it was because of the strobe lighting. But it might as well have been the inner glow escaping from us, so excited were we at being stars.
The only dramatic part I recall playing was a pirate called Black Bill. And while he had several lines, I can now only remember one, where Bill counted off the steps towards some buried treasure. The reason I remember is that I was supposed to say "One, two, three . . ." as I strode off-stage. But sensing the innumeracy that lurked at the heart of my character, and high on strobe lighting, I ad-libbed: "One, two, four . . ." It brought the house down.
That was the height of my acting career. Although, come to think of it, being a parent involves a lot of dramatic roles. Why, in only two weeks' time, a jolly fat man - of all things! - will be coming down our chimney. And forthcoming events also include an imminent first visit from the tooth fairy.
Maybe it's just as well that the Virgin Mary doesn't have a big speaking part.
Of course, a parent's greatest dramatic challenge is to act calm when running around from piano classes, to dancing classes, to swimming lessons, while coping with such occasional crises as wondering if you're supposed to supply the swaddling clothes (and what exactly are swaddling clothes, and can you get them in Mothercare?). It's the great paradox of paternity. You start out being the star of your own life. Then you have kids and everything changes. Your part expands. You get more and more lines. But when it comes to the Oscars, suddenly, the only category for which you're ever nominated is best performance in a supporting role.
