The CBS interview has wrapped and the vomiting was narrowly averted. I spent the remainder of the evening curled up into the fetal position praying that this counts as my moment in the sun.
Yesterday was actually the second day of taping. They came last week to film the kids and I shopping at a farm and a local produce market. That was easy. We just had to pretend like they weren’t there. I always ignore my fellow shoppers, so this wasn’t much of a stretch. However, with the camera guy closing in on us around the peach bins, I couldn’t resist leaning toward the nearest shopper, all secret-like, and whispering, “Is somebody following me?”
Considering the camera guy and the sound guy tailed us everywhere we went, the kids were remarkably not freaked out. I guess our prowling video footage of every developmental milestone in the Preschooler’s life prepared him well. The Toddler just hammed it up as if he’d never, ever seen a video camera before, probably because, as the second-born, he hasn’t.
Other memorable moments caught on film last week: me making a ridiculously big deal about the baby chicks at a local farm (“Kids…look at the chicks over there. BABY CHIIIIIIICKS!”), when they were clearly ducklings. Also, the multiple orgasms I had upon discovering bacon in the fridge at the farm store.
Yesterday’s interview was much, much harder. As usual, the channel that opens from my brain directly to my left hand does not make any detours along the way. When the interviewer asks you a question and you immediately turn to your left hand and start demanding answers, THAT, apparently, doesn’t make for “good TV.”
What does make for good TV, however, is good hair. That was just not in the cards, I’m afraid. On my morning to-do list, pretty hair came right after mastering a verbal command of the English language. I opted for neither. Especially when my alarm failed to go off that morning even though I checked it fourteen times the night before (Volume control? Check. AM, not PM? Check. Alarm 1, not Alarm 2? Crap, wrong one. Let’s start from the top.). God damn those alarm clocks. Do they ever go off when they’re supposed to?
Luckily, after seven hours of off-and-on shooting, Husband arrived home just in time to charm the pants off of the crew. I’m not sure if a pants-less crew would have made me more or less at ease in front of the camera, but by then I was speaking in tongues and had thrown my hair into a ponytail in defeat, so who cares.
Anyway, it won’t be airing until November. Or maybe January. Or, you know, we might pretend like it never happened at all. I haven’t decided, yet. I just hope the American public is prepared for my dad’s television debut.