Broadway Baby

So. I am in my kitchen, making tea.

My daughter is sitting in her purple Dora chair in the playroom behind me, watching “Annie” on DVD. (Yes. I let my child watch “Annie”, with its cast of all-singing, all-dancing orphans. Don’t you judge me. I’ll accept my “Bad Adoptive Parent of the Year” award later. Besides, it’s the Broadway version, with a black female lead and an interracial cast and it rocks. So there.)

So. As I said, I am making tea.

Behind me, the familiar strains of that old chestnut of musicals, “Tomorrow”, begin.

Suddenly, I hear:

**PLONK! PLONK!!**

“Woah woah!”

**PLONK PLONK! PLONK! PLONK!**

“Woooooooaaaaahhhh!”

My daughter is singing along, in her way, to “Tomorrow”. Very soulfully, I might add. And playing her tuneless little yellow hippy dippy guitar, as well.

I rush for the camera. Too late!

The scene changes and suddenly, she’s stomping about the room and waving her arms rather rhythmically along to a big dance number.

A budding musical theatre star! I’m so proud.

I can’t wait until she can begin to support her old parents in the manner to which we would like to become accustomed.