Fashion Show Practice

The girls and I were shopping in a local department store recently and one of the managers approached me about allowing Natalie to participate in their Spring Fashion Show.

The girls were having a good morning and instead of whining-begging for crackers-running away-grabbing stuff off racks-torturing her sister, Natalie turned into Miss Congeniality and told the manager her name, her age, her sister's stats, and her favorite color; all with the poise of a Miss America contestant in the final round.

Michaela Byrd was fit to be tied when she found out she's too young to participate, but I distracted her with something shiny.

I agreed that Natalie could walk in the show, mostly because I remember participating in the same one when I was her exact age.

The moment where I broke the rules and curtsied at the end of the runway, causing the audience to do a collective "aaaawww" not only solidified my love of the spotlight, but it also signaled the end of my runway career as I imagine it royally ticked the fashion show coordinator off. I can only hope for a longer arching career for my firstborn.

Natalie and Michaela Byrd's experience with fashion shows is limited solely to their thrice weekly viewing of Barbie: A Fashion Fairytale. (A finer cinematic achievement has yet to be made) One of the things they learned from Barbie (aside from the fact that it's nice when fairies come and do all the work for you) is that runway models walk on a stage.

The girls decided they wanted to have a fashion show practice on the only stage-like structure we have, which is our deck.

Despite the fact that our stage prominently displayed the remains of the woodpile, a box from the hardware store, and a plastic golf bag, two international model scouts (from Pomerania) were in attendance:

One even agreed to walk the runway with the girls:

The girls were offered modeling contracts on the spot, but they signed in crayon before I could read the fine print that said all payments would be made in goldfish crackers and juice boxes.

So I guess the future of fame and fortune all hinges on next weekend's fashion show. It's either that or Toddlers and Tiaras, and I haven't worked on my stage mom routine that much.

I'm nowhere near the level of Tom Hanks. Yet. (If you haven't seen this video, please, I beg of you, click over from your reader. This is funny enough that it's worth a click! I love seeing Tom Hanks run a sewing machine, and the last 30 seconds are priceless.)



"Sexy feet. Sexy feet!"