Like NSYNC fandom and the cult of Lisa Frank, The Lion King played as much importance to my youth as it did any human who lived and loved in the time of Neopet cholera. The Lion King craze hit my hometown like the rest of the mid-90‘s world, as my gaggle of siblings and I rallied in the woods of our cul-de-sac to act out the Disney cartoon classic.

My sister Bridget would play Simba. She was a courageous 7 year old and a hell-raising one at that, the kind of child to turn a blind eye to her own split lip and run from our parents at Disney World. The latter actually happened. My terrified mother found her swimming in Typhoon Lagoon, happy as a goddamn clam.

I would play Nala, which was always fine by me. Though a less pivotal role, I was happy to land any character that wasn’t Pumbaa. I was a chubby 6 year old with a bowl cut. Playing Nala was as gratifying as dressing up a pre-”Slave 4 U” Britney Spears.

My sister Kathleen would play Rafiki. The older sibling, Kathleen was always moving as a child. She was the most graceful of the three of us. Of my family of seven, she was the only one who could dance without embarrassing our entire Irish ancestry.

In what was likely our last ever game of King, Kathleen climbed a tree in full-on Rafiki mode. Though young, I remember the day well, when she fell from the tree and hit her head badly on the rocks surrounding it’s trunk. I remember running home to tell my parents that Kathleen was, in fact, very much dead.

She didn’t die, but she did get stitches. Though terrifying then, my family looks back on it now as we do most Kelly family memories: with a laugh. Thinking of Kathleen, now 27, falling from that tree holds the same weight as every time my sister Sheila caught me stealing her clothes, or my brother Patrick tricking us all into thinking he’d been struck by lightning after coming in from a rainstorm with ketchup smeared on his arms. He’s now father to the world’s most adorable baby boy. Weird how things change, huh?

The Lion King was very important to my childhood. So when my Mom asked me to see the play at Boston Symphony Hall with her, of course I said yes. And when I joked with the Allston Pudding team that I’d had plans to go, would they like a review? Of course they said yes. Of course!

My mother’s never seen the movie, which may surprise you. But to know her is to understand that, Christ! How would she have time? By its 1994 release she was the mother to five kids under the age of 15. We’re now all college graduates. It’s a wonder she made it out alive.

When I told my Mom I was reviewing the show she was excited. When I told her she would be playing a large part in reader experience, she was a bit skeptical.

“Do I have to say something funny?”

“Isn’t there some sort of contract for me to sign?”

Though a longtime dweller of these mean streets, my dad drove us downtown to ensure we wouldn’t be kidnapped. To him, Boston’s Theatre District will always be “The Combat Zone”, a moniker given to the area for it’s history of crime, violence and seedier side of nightlife. Born in Boston, my dad sees the city as it was in his youth. You say “Park Street,” he says “you’re going to get mugged.”

We made it out of the car unscathed and into the venue. Before we could be awed by the Symphony Hall’s luxuriously gilded decor, I made my Mom stop by this prison gate for a photo.

Here she is! The woman who raised me, saint of a human, patron of the arts! And she was ready to rock, as the best moms always are.

We made our way into the venue and stopped at a bag check, where two security guards rifled through our belongings for guns and outside food. Ever the friendly woman, Mom asked the security guard searching her purse if he’d like one of the million mints she’s known to keep inside it. To the shock of stone-faced, ranked breathed security everywhere, he took her up on the offer. He was actually a pretty nice guy.

At this point my mom slapped on her #coolmom pin, a gem crafted by Allston Pudding’s community partner, Disposable America. Dustin Watson, man behind the label, made this pin for my mom a few months after meeting her. To know my mom is to agree that she is indeed, very #cool.

We carried on into Symphony Hall to meet other showgoers queuing up in the lobby. The show was at 8 and it was just 7:20. We had time to kill, and spent most of it in awe. Such fanciness! Check the chandelier.

The crowd surrounding us was mixed. Brace-faced boys in suit jackets, young couples in budding romance, old folk and their senior-home comrades—all had come to take in the sights and sounds of a glorious classic. I hadn’t been to the venue before but my mom and sisters had. They’d seen the Nutcracker last Christmas and when Swan Lake comes around this winter, they’ll take that in too. As kids, my sister Bridget and I fished coloring books out of the neighbor’s trash. We’ve really blossomed into quite the refined bunch.

Soon doors opened and things got a bit chaotic. As showtime drew closer and the crowd beelined towards their seats, I started to feel like Mufasa during that (spoiler alert) fateful scene with the water buffalo. My mom and I meandered to our seats slightly slower than the bunch, taking in the venue’s opulence and pursuing our favorite pastime: people watching.

Is this how royalty lived? I asked myself while pursuing a nearby list of overpriced drinks, or what the bartender called, “adult beverages.” My mom and I opted out of refreshments due to a genetic condition called TBS. Though chronic, Tiny Bladder syndrome is tolerable, unless you have to sit through a two hour musical on a full bladder.

Our seats were on the second floor, past a stand selling $55 sweatshirts and these Disney-themed beanie babies for the price of your first born child. Is it just me, or does Timon look a little depressed?

And then we were in! We made it to our seats without any major problems, aside from the serious shade chucked my way by a nearby usher. He glared at my bulky camera while other showgoers snapped photos the more subtle iPhone route. He was still glaring while this girl #selfied.

As her picture was posted the lights dimmed and the crowd grew silent, a silence soon broken by an overhead announcement. What’s that? No photos during the performance? Well I’ll be damned!

Rafiki started chanting in a series of clicks, her intonation rising and falling in what felt like a spark of jazz improvisation. That’s when my mom turned to school me.

“Do you hear that? She’s speaking Xhosa. There was a singer in the 60’s named Miriam Makeba. She was South African, she was famous for singing in that language.”

My mom is the kind to whip out knowledge when you least expect it. Just when you doubt her for not knowing how to use modern technology, she’ll tell you about Nordic wedding traditions or the Yukaghir people of Eastern Siberia. She knows more the Mongolian tribes of Xiongnu than most people know about their next door neighbors.

When the show really got going, I put my camera away for good. Here are some photos ripped straight from the hands of the internet, which do the musical far better justice than my pathetic photog skills could anyhow. What? I’m no Ben Stas.

The show was fantastic. Though the music itself was well-worth a ticket, for me the show’s real highlight was it’s costumes. Stilt-legged giraffes, antelope rolling on bicycle wheels, even the African grasslands had elaborate outfits made even more complex by the skillful dancers who wore them. Much of the show’s aesthetic reflected traditional African design. Set dressers and costume designers took care to include African details across all boards, from the use of tribal masks to detailed body paint, to the corsets worn by all actors- a stiff beaded material known traditionally to Dinkan Sudan. The stage was incredibly captivating, even without sound.

But there was sound. Have you seen the videos of Lion King cast members on planes? Where they belt out classic numbers before take-off, delighting passengers and the hairsprayed, handkerchiefed crew? Their voices stand alone and in chorus, supporting one another from the start of a melody to finale in a blossoming masse of affirmation. The songs alone are a spectacle, a kind of beauty rare and equally precious. Watch those videos and I can tell you––they’re a lot like what I heard in Boston Symphony Hall. Minus my internal screams, of course. I’m deathly afraid of flying.

I’ve always been weary of musicals. The singing, the dancing, or really just the fans––I’ll admit I’m not into theatrics. Ask me my favorite movies and I’ll tell you “the kind where nothing happens.” Ask me my favorite color and I’ll tell you “gray.” I may be bland, but my mother is not. She was glowing as we left the theatre, enthused by a giant spectacle and it’s take on the circle of life. Somehow, she’s gotten even cooler as I’ve grown. Spending time with her is like time with a friend, with the added bonus of bloodline and––okay––maybe a free dinner or two.

Seeing The Lion King with my mom was better than any Disney movie, though I have to say my favorite parts of the night lay slightly outside the performance. It’s around the time of college we realize our parents to be “real people,” with flaws and complexities and lives that far exceed our own. These days, I jump at the chance to spend time with my parents. I know they can teach me a thing or two about life or my landlord, about filing taxes and treating strangers with respect. It was during “Circle of Life” that I realized how lucky I was to have my mother next to me, the Mufasa to my Simba, the dang reason I exist. We left the venue as she told me her plans to start tap dancing lessons this week. When Chicago rolls through Symphony Hall find my mom, front and center in the dance line, a smile on her face as if to say, “This one’s for you!”