I'm not being paid - you are.

Do you know how big Central Park is? I do, because today I dragged three kids over every square foot of it searching, first for the Marionette Theater, which was completely devoid of a sign so I traipsed passed it three times, then looking for the one playground with sprinklers, which proved to be challenging as we were lured here, there and everywhere by the sprinklers the grounds crew had set up on every patch of grass in the park. After a certain point even I had to admit to the kids that, yes, it did indeed suck, and thankfully we found the theater right when we were reaching crisis point, meaning I had no more Goldfish with which to buy their silence.

After my Bronx Zoo-induced fear that the quaint, Swiss cottage theater would not be air conditioned was allayed, we settled into our seats, the lights went down, and I prepared myself for forty-five minutes of basically sleeping with my eyes open, surrounded by Manhattan nannies and their young charges. The plinky fairy tale score plays as and the narrator begins his shtick, "ARE YOU READY KIDS???" Cue excited screaming. Then, "ARE YOU READY PARENTS???" Cue half-hearted murmurs of assent (since 95% of the adults in the room were not blood relatives). This, apparently, was not good enough for this guy, "I SAID, ARE YOU READY PARENTS???" At this point, the portion of the adult audience who is on the clock, and afraid of being narced out by their charges when Mommy gets home, gather their energy and respond with some gusto this time. And me? I just dragged a combined one hundred and forty pounds of offpsring on a West Side Death March and you expect me to get it up for you and cheer? This why I hate live childrens' performances.

Remember that scene in A Christmas Story, where Ralphie and Randy are in line for Santa, and the characters from the Wizard of Oz show up and the Wicked Witch of the West attempts to engage with Ralphie? "My, what a tasty little boy!" Ralphie's response? "Don't, uh, bother me, I'm, uh, thinking." That in a nutshell is my exact feeling when I am forced to interact with childrens' performers. I can not stand their overly enunciated, loud voices and saccharine turn of phrase. I can't stand my own pity for them, wondering what their real thespian aspirations are and knowing, deep inside, there lurks complete disdain for their role as The Big Good Wolf, which they are covering up with a fake grin and crazy eyes.

If you want me to interact with you, join The Blue Man Group. Well, that's a lie, because I don't enjoy interacting with any performers, if I'm really telling the truth. Even if I were faced with Dame Judi Dench delivering a Tony-worthy performance, during which I was required to participate, I would sit in my seat, uncomfortably trying to avoid eye contact. Having third row seats to see Cats on Broadway in high school was even more of a hell on earth than seeing a play about, well, cats, as all those damn cat-people sneaked off the stage and scared the shit out of you when they popped up behind your seat in the audience. Don't even get me started about my family's day at the Renaissance Festival, which H was fortunate enough to be dragged along to (further proof that a teenage boy in love will do anything if he has even the slightest chance of copping a feel including "come with me and my parents to the Renaissance Fair"). This nightmare involved the same B-level thespians, this time dressed as tradesmen, lepers and women of easy virtue. H, even worse than me when it comes to audience participation avoidance, was in a terror sweat all day, especially since my sister insisted on playing along with the actors, drawing attention to our group. Quiet a good actress herself, she mercilessly harassed one of the lepers, asking him to show her his sores, until the poor guy ran off, knocking over a table of pewter dragon jewelry in his haste.

It is a rather unfortunate position to be in with children as I am constantly surrounded by puppeteers, over-zealous birthday party magicians and (gulp) clowns, but I will suffer through gritted teeth to give my children the experience of live entertainment. I will use my tried and true method of tending to Little Man and avoiding eye contact in order to make these outings more bearable. And you can bet your ass I'm not raising my hand to volunteer when they ask, "Which mom or dad wants to come up here and play one of the Three Bears?"

Don't bother me. I'm thinking.