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My kids are in band.
My husband was the DRUM-MAJOR at his high school… so, yeah… my kids were doomed to be band-geeks. I was on drill team in high school, so I got to parade around in short little skirt and swivel my hips while said band nerds played “Tequila” at football games. I am not sure what this dooms my kids to be… I won’t go there.
But in all fairness the band at the local junior high is full of the cool kids. Largely in part to an amazing band director who wins, like, POPULARITY contests for being the coolest teacher in the whole wide world. Nobody stands a chance against this guy. So…. back to what I was saying… my kids (and everyone else’s) are in band.
So, last week I went to the band concert. They call it a “gig” which, to me, is more like a cool dude with a guitar in a coffee shop, but I’ll go with it for now. So, I went to the band gig. Izzy was playing in the 6th grade band (trumpet) and Jade was playing in the 8th grade band (clarinet). I left the two littlies at home with Dave, but took Lily (who plans on joining next year and playing the flute) with me.
We arrive at the junior high, head to the gym, and climb to the top of the bleachers. We cuddle in with a bunch of peeps from the hood (I know that I live in a suburb, but every so often I like to speak the speak, ya know?) I end up sitting next to Lily and 3 of her buddies from 4th grade. Which is possibly THE MOST embarrassing thing that has ever happened to Lily. I mean… can you even stand it? Her Aunt sat NEXT to her in public?
But back to me…
As I am sitting there listening to “Go Tell Aunt Rhodie” and “Old MacDondald Had a Farm” for the third year in a row, the numbers started to calculate in my head. And then I realized that because of the way my kids were spaced out, I had 15 MORE YEARS of band concerts in front of me. Oh yes… 15 more years. Then the images began to flash.
The people around me would change, but I would be the one constant at all the concerts for the next 15 years. There was like this time-lapse photography thing going on in my head of me sitting in the same place on the bleachers while the people around me changed – most of whom will be younger than me. I would keep getting older and my eyes would glaze over just a bit more each year. The rest of the parents would come and go and I would still be there… in 15 years.
15
I wonder if I will be wearing the same jeans and Old Navy t-shirt, with my hair up in a pony tail. Will they refer to me as “that old crazy woman with all the band kids.” Will my husband continue to run marathons, but me… my braggin’ rights will be endless band concerts on rock hard bleachers listening to wobbly renditions of “Aura Lee.”
But I guess this is what I signed up for. I look across the gym and see Izzy waving at me from opposite bleachers where the 6th graders are waiting to perform. I wave back with a big smile and lots of kiss-blowing. I swell with joy as I watch a collection of little girls that Izzy met in 3rd grade who are now not-so-little perform flute solos, flute duets and trios, and a saxophone solo. These beautiful girls whose mothers I love and who were Izzy’s very first friends. I couldn’t help but bob my head a bit as they played. When they finished, they bend their heads to receive medals for their bravery and I snap pictures because they are soooo brave. So beautiful. I see Jade hanging out with her friends that she met in band — good, no, great kids who love music and Jesus and each other. I see the cute boy that knocked on our door to pick Jade up for youth group perform in a trombone trio and although I know Jade and he are just friends (really), I am glad that she knows him and that there are boys of his caliber in her life. And when the 8th grade band performs a overture from “The Music Man”, they are actually good. And fun to listen to. And I was proud of them all.
So, after the concert I went down to take the required pictures, which I now realize will be in every family photo album for the next (wait for it) 15 years.
My Band Kids
Which is very, very cool.
A while back at a dinner party an acquaintance said that she felt sorry for kids in large families, because the older kids “gave up their own childhood” to help raise the younger kids.
I could not disagree more.
While it is true that in large families the parents become less of a focus. Mom and dad can’t do everything or even as much as parents of 1 or 2 kids. If we tried, we would turn into gelatinous blobs of goo and the kids would be on their own anyway. But what does happen is that a tribe mentality develops. Everyone chips in and, most importantly, we all take care of each other. Now, I am not talking about a democracy… hell no! In this tribe there are chiefs! But there is also the reality that we ALL make this family work.
That means that the oldest kids sometimes read the bedtime stories to the youngest or cook dinner one night or babysit so mom and dad can go out for coffee or just get a private conversation with each other. This is not a bummer for anyone. Not even that older kid. What they get in return (beyond the skills it takes to do these things) is trust, responsibility, and a relationship with their younger siblings that goes beyond bickering or vying for attention. I know Jade would throw herself in front of a bus to save her little sister. And that kind of love does not always come naturally when you are 13! The oldest(s) get the best hugs. They get to be the favorite. They get to be the heroes.
When they score a goal at their soccer games, they get the sloppy wet kiss of a 4 year old. They get to see their little sister snatch up their hand-me-downs like they are gold so she can imitate them. They get tackled the moment they get home from school and, sometimes, sometimes, they get to rock the baby to sleep. It is through these experiences that they actually hold on to their childhood. They get to build legos longer, play dress up more often, and watch cartoons without excuse.
The love that flows between these oldest and these youngest and all the ones in between is not for us parents, us adults, to understand and certainly not to judge. But we do get to enjoy it. And occasionally we get a night “off” as a result of it.
Ty (4) hugging Jade (13) after his preschool graduation!
I love being a mom. Even when I am cringing at the sounds of my son’s voice, or exhausted by how buying the “right” coat for an 8th grade girl can feel like Middle East peace negotiations, I am glad that I am a mom. But, being a mom has made me needy. Very needy. Almost to the point where I wonder if there is some 12-step program for moms (if there isn’t, maybe there should be).
Mostly I need sleep. And I need adult food – like steak or red curry or expensive hamburgers. I also often need new clothes – ones that are not covered with someone else’s food or don’t embarrass my older girls at their complete lack of coolness. I probably need some new vernacular, too. Words like “cool” or “awesome” are so “ghetto” and not “tight”at all (how am I doing?).
I also need a lot of Grace. And I do mean Grace with the big “G”. Every single day I make mistakes that I can only pray do not send my kids to years and years of therapy someday. Like the time I was so frustrated with Ty’s behavior I threatened to take away his birthday or when I insisted that Izzy take off the “ugly” head band for her school pictures or just how every year going to get the Christmas tree results in some form of tension between Dave and me, but I still insist on loading all 7 of us up in the mini-van the Saturday after Thanksgiving to go get a damn tree and begin Christmas!
Ugh.
I also need my kids to hug me, and kiss me. Probably more than they need me to kiss and hug them. I need to take their pictures in such a way that they will see what I saw at each stage. I need to fill their babybooks with snippets that will help me remember everything. I need to be treated tenderly because my heart now lives on the outside and walks and talks and eats and poops. I need to pray and pray and pray that all 5 will be safe and healthy and that their teachers will love them and that their friends will be kind to them and that someday they will find someone to love them and that, hence, I will get grandkids that hopefully will sleep through the night and eat all their veggies and never scrape their knees.
I could go on and on. Like I said, I am very needy. And I love being a mom.
I swore that when I became a mom I would not, absolutely not, become one of those moms who could only talk about her kids; one of those moms who had the almost supernatural ability to steer any conversation whether it be about classic literature, politics, or lingerie, back to her offspring.
Well, guess what. I am there.
In fact, I am so there that I have started this blog to help me accomplish just that.
It is not that I don’t love literature and politics. I mean, I do. (I do admit, though, that it is my husband who likes the lingerie, not me). I used to be an avid NPR listener. I used to read Shakespeare for fun, for goodness sakes. But when faced with the chance to bring up something funny my four year old son said, or to lament with another mom about the perils of 13 year old girls, I cannot resist. It is like a reflex. At first, I tried my own intervention. But all I could come up with was a subscription to Entertainment Weekly and so now I can talk about my kids and the entertainment industry, not exactly the Ivy-league solution I was hoping for.
So, there is no doubt that motherhood has changed me. I feel that in many ways I am the sequel to myself. The first part of the story was the flashy, sexy version that knew something about wine, music, and art. Someone who wore heels and drank fancy beers and drove a sports car. But, part II (as most sequels tend to be) is a bit “off” from the original. Not bad, not bad at all, just so wildly not what you expected that it causes you to tilt your head and wonder is this comfortable-clothes-wearing, covered-in-sweet potatoes, messy-ponytail, PTA mom the same person as before?
Well. I am the same person but different, too. I can still talk about Barrack Obama, Dante’s Inferno, and the pros and cons to wearing thong underwear. But, I can also steer each and every one of those conversations back to the 5 most incredible, wonderful, amazing, awe-inspiring people I know…my kids.
The Kiddos: Age 13, 12, 9, 4 (the only boy) and a baby!
