Phase I: Excitement and anticipation.
Whether you child plays woodwinds, brass, or percussion (like mine), you will be excited to attend this important event, potentially the performance of a lifetime. All year your child has been waking up early twice a week to get to band practice, instrument in tow. Finally you get to hear the fruits of his labor! You mark your calendar, rearrange appointments, and shuffle any competing extracurricular activities so that the whole family is available to be in attendance. How often are you treated to a night of FREE musical entertainment, after all?
Phase 2: Preparation.
You rearrange your work schedule to make sure you won’t be late at the office that day. You make sure to have a cup of coffee around 4 pm to get you through the evening’s excitement. Getting home a little early, you have dinner on the table by 5 pm. Can’t let your micro-sized musician go to his big concert with a rumbly tummy! There is no time to linger over dinner, but you manage to get the dishes in the dishwasher and everyone has their homework done. Your mini-Mozart has his instrument and band binder by the door ready to go. A quick check reveals that everyone is wearing pants. You are winning! It’s almost go time!
Phase 3: Enter into the first concentric circle of hell.
You remind baby Bach that the band teacher wants all the boys to wear a shirt, tie, and dress pants, and all the girls to wear a dress or a skirt. What? A TIE? I HAVE TO WEAR A TIE? I HATE TIES AND I’M NOT DRESSING UP AND I AM NOT GOING AND I HATE BAND ANYWAY AND WHY DOES MY BAND TEACHER CARE WHAT I WEAR THIS IS SO STUPID I’M NOT GOING. As you are putting out the fire in Ringo’s dressing room, sister shows up, after being asked to go brush her hair, in a beautiful off-white formal dress with a tulle skirt and sequined bodice. You explain to sister that she should go put her jeans back on because a school concert does not require formal dress, while simultaneously trying to get your musician into a shirt and tie. The incongruity is not lost on you, or your children for that matter. It looks like it is all falling apart, but really, there is a simple explanation for this: You have entered the gate of hell. “Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate” (translation, in case your Italian is rusty–“Abandon all hope, ye who enter here”).
Phase 4: Arrival and seating.
You and your family are now varying degrees of sweaty, angry, stressed, and resentful. This means you are ready to go! You pile into the family-mobile and drive in frustrated silence punctuated only by a mom-lecture from the front seat. You get there early enough to get some choice seats–4th row!! You see that the program you picked up on the way in mandates no flash photography, and requests that the audience express their appreciation with applause only, and not with “hooting and hollering”. You make a mental note to contain your enthusiasm.
Phase 5: Begin to unexpectedly enjoy yourself.
About mid-way through the first song, you realize, “hey, these kids are good. Like, REALLY good! I can’t believe these kids are in elementary and middle school!” The music selections range from classical, to “You’re a Grand Old Flag”, to a jaunty Lady Gaga medley. This is pretty awesome!
Phase 6: Experience shock, awe and pride.
Then, all of a sudden, it’s the big moment. The 5th grade band takes the stage. The conductor raises her wand and they begin to play as one, in perfect harmony. You burst with pride. Even though you can’t see your 4’11” percussionist in the very back behind the tubas because of the tall guy in front of you and all the flutes and clarinets in the way, you can hear all kinds of drumming and maraca shaking in the back and you just know–that percussion section is KILLING IT.
Phase 7: Start to feel the fatigue of your day setting in.
You are enjoying yourself, you really are. But after the adrenaline wears off from the pre-show circus at your house and the 5th grade band exits the stage after their third number, and the 4 pm coffee wears off, you realize that you are just plain tired. You start to fantasize about your pajamas, and how good it will feel to take off your bra.
Phase 8: Start to hate everything and everyone and SWEET MOTHER OF MARY how much longer is this concert get me out of here because I need to go to bed.
You look down and, to your dismay, you are only one-third of the way through the evening’s program. You start to practice your deep breathing, just like your yoga teacher taught you. As the moments go on, you start to hate people, all people, especially all the people around you who look like they are having fun, even though you were having fun a minute ago too, but now you changed your mind and you are no longer having fun. You are tired and you want to go take off your pants and lie down in your bed, but you know that before you can do that you will have to sit in a long car line on the way out of the parking lot with all of these happy-looking people who apparently have much better coping skills than you and can stay up past 8 pm without needing a mental health arrest. Screw them.
Phase 9: Rush home to put everyone to bed.
You made it to the end. Now, only 8 hours until you have to wake up at the butt-crack of dawn to get yourself and your kids up and out the door for school and work! You sit in the stupid car line out of the parking lot, then speed home. You order everyone upstairs to perform their nightly dental hygiene practices and get into their pajamas. But, no. NO. THEY CAN’T DO THAT RIGHT NOW BECAUSE THEY ARE HUNGRY. They need a “snack”, because heaven forbid they go more than 2 hours without some kind of carbohydrate-laden concoction filled with red #40 to stick in their little music-makers. You say, “No, go to bed! You’re tired, not hungry!”, but your spouse “doesn’t think it’s right” to send kids to bed hungry, so he gives them yogurt while you haul your weary carcass up the stairs. You brush your own teeth and get your own pajamas on and try to figure out why your children are so resistant to bedtime, which is the best time of the day, in your opinion.
Phase 10: Recovery.
At this point, assume the recovery position. Lie on you side in the fetal position. Stare catatonically at the wall. Feel proud of your child’s accomplishments. Feel proud of yourself for being a
super awesome good enough parent. You may close your eyes and allow sleep to overtake you at this point. Dream of your child, all grown up and performing in the symphony.
***The sequence of events in this blog entry and all characters appearing in it may or may not be entirely accurate and not at all fictitious depending on who is asking and whether or not you are going to tell my son that I blogged about that part with the tie.