It’s embarrassing to admit, but I just watched the American Idol finale. My whole life I have avoided liking anything that is popular among the masses, or at least liking these things publicly.
I’m not sure how I got hooked on Idol. The cheesily bad auditions drew me in and then the weekly anticipation of the singing and more importantly, the excruciatingly drawn out results shows, kept me finagling with the cable to get reception. Not that Idol is an original show; I am carried back to my childhood—sitting on the scratchy couch in the den watching The Gong Show. I always admired the folks who ignored the gong, or who honestly didn’t seem to hear it, even when it was being pounded upon by some has-been celebrity judge.
Tonight, the gong rang for Bo and Carrie was crowned Miss American Idol. She helped her mom up onstage and bear hugged her. Mrs. Mom Idol patted her daughter on the back, just like I pat Genny, and just like Genny pats her Baby Doll.
From one mom to the next and already we are passing the baton down to our daughters, even when they are still in diapers. Genny is already maternally caring for Baby Doll. True, she does lose her patience with the doll every now and then and toss her onto the sidewalk where she is then run over by the stroller, but other than that—true love and caring.
Perhaps one day my baby will be helping my aging body up on stage to be congratulated for her accomplishments—American Idol, Academy Award winner or Spelling Bee Champion. I will certainly be clasping her body to mine, jumping up and down, hooting and hollering and proclaiming wildly, “That’s my little girl!”