Phantom Parents

This is hard to admit. 

Back in the late ‘80s, my husband and I were obsessed with Phantom of the Opera.  My parents had seen the Andrew Lloyd Weber show in London and brought us a tape (yes, on a cassette) of the score.  I found the darkness and the melodies so haunting and the fate of the love triangle so bittersweet.   Its music got under my skin and then rushed to fill every bit of negative space in my brain.  My husband was similarly afflicted.

When our son was born, it was in the midst of our Phantom phase.  So it was that he was introduced into a home where Phantom ruled.  We had even assumed the practice of falling asleep to the Phantom score each night.  Thus, he learned to sleep to our dark nightly broadcast.  Eventually, our son became so conditioned to this music that if he became fussy in the car we would simply turn on the opening chords of the Phantom theme.  Before the chords reached their downward destination he would be asleep!

Around this same time, Phantom of the Opera finally went on the road.  The originating pair of Michael Crawford and Sarah Brighton split up, with Brighton going to Broadway and Crawford hitting the Los Angeles stage at the Ahmundson Theatre.  Living in San Francisco at the time, we began buying the Sunday LA Times each week, desperately looking for tickets to the sold-out LA run.   There was no internet in those days.  We would spend all day on Sunday rabidly calling various ticket agencies, only to reach endless busy signals.  The quest consumed us.

At last an opportunity arose.  A large Los Angeles hotel offered a pair of tickets to Phantom of the Opera as part of a package that included a 2-night stay and a limo ride to the theatre.  Perfect!  We grabbed it, securing a date about six weeks away, although not fully appreciating the concept of “non-refundable.”  As the weekend drew closer, the logistics would not fall into place.  For starters, our babysitter— who we assumed would take our son for the weekend—refused.  Then, I was asked to go to Phoenix to do an important presentation on Friday afternoon, just hours before curtain time. 

I called the hotel in Los Angeles, asking whether it was possible to arrange a babysitter for the evening while we went to the theatre.  They handed my call to a manager who said she would arrange her children’s own babysitter for us.  So far so good.  Then I realized I could fly directly from Phoenix to LA in almost no time at all.  The only tricky part left was that my husband would be on his own getting my son and all the required baggage to the airport.   It was a miracle when the three of us met up at LAX and all the bags arrived without delay.  Rejoicing, we headed out into the LA traffic toward the hotel.

Arriving at the hotel the miracles continued.  Our room was waiting for us and it was lovely.  A crib was already there and set up.  We had just enough time to freshen up when the promised babysitter knocked on the door.  We handed the baby to her and ran out—fixated on the show that awaited us.  When we got to the theatre, our seats were perfect—orchestra center on the aisle.  We looked at the program, excited to confirm that Michael Crawford would really be performing.

Then suddenly, it hit us like a load of bricks.  What had we done?  We just handed our son to a stranger and ran out.  We did not have her name or the name of the manager with whom I had made the arrangements.  In fact, we had barely spoken to the woman.  Had she been someone from housekeeping?  Did she speak English?  Did she have an evil glint in her eyes?  The house lights were flashing.  If I left now to phone the hotel I would be locked out of the theatre through the first act.  I would miss the famous scene reconstituting the chandelier. 

Together, my husband and I took a deep breath.  Everything that was promised to us as customers was delivered by the hotel—a very famous hotel relied upon by the most discriminating of divas.  They were expecting us and facilitated our needs impeccably, almost as if we were stars ourselves.  They made our trip easy and enjoyable.  As rare as it was to find this kind of service, this is why they had a great reputation.  We forced ourselves to relax.  The lights dimmed.  The auctioneer tapped his gavel on the block. “Lot 664, ladies and gentlemen. . .”  We were once again caught up in the magic that was Phantom of the Opera.

Our tiny son was fast asleep when we returned to the hotel.  The lovely babysitter was sitting quietly at his side, reading a book in dim light so as not to disturb him.  She got a big tip, and we learned a couple of important lessons as parents.  First, complete your detail-obsessed due-diligence on the front end.  Then, trust yourselves enough to enjoy some well-earned time off.

Tomorrow's blog:  Marathon Man