It has been on my mind for two months. November first was the day for the cast to parade in front of the directors. In costume. 

The possibilities for disappointment were myriad. 

How could I expect to please three dozen teenagers for whom appearance is up there with popularity? In what universe did I think myself capable of nailing the vision of a triplet of producers trying to create a story? Yet I hoped.

It is not as if I thought the process was finished. I have barely considered footwear, or tackled the beavers' tails. Two capes are still being hemmed, and the mane needs adjustments. The crown for the Witch is not started. 

Mrs. Beaver and the Dwarf seemed especially pleased with their ensembles, based on their smiles. I said as much to the twins. 

"Mom, those girls are always smiling."

The production team tossed comments on the fly.

"No white on the wolf's mask. Make it gray like his coat."

"The fox needs to be in pants not a skirt, for better movement."

"The White Witch's dress drags.  A few inches shorter."

"Tumnus' horns are too big. I only want a hint of them poking out of his hair."

"More color in the Unicorn's boa."

"Fewer flowers and more leaves for the wood nymphs."

My triumph was especially focused on the efforts of the costuming class. The girl who spent three hours cutting felt for a hedgehog. The boy who glued foliage to wrist bands. The student who crafted antlers for the White Stag. The one who made furry arm bands. 

I was energized. With three weeks to the dress rehearsal we have work to do. 

But would I want it another way? Isn't the pleasure of life in digging in? Making changes? I used to think the best part of a show is seeing it when it is ready. I was wrong. 

Those five words that truncate fairy tales miss the best part. 

The wardrobe for The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe is not finished.  But we have a beginning. More than a beginning. A middling.