The Audition

Last Monday, Mark announced he had an audition with the high school band. He and the middle school band teacher were working on a drum solo.

"What's the audition for?" I asked.

"I don't know," Mark snapped, like this was the dumbest question ever.

On Tuesday, I asked how it was going. He answered, "All right," then said he scheduled his audition for Thursday, so he could work with his private drum teacher.

"Great idea!" I said. I was impressed by his maturity and logical reasoning.

On Wednesday, Mark asked to double his private lesson time. His weekly lesson is 30 minutes, but he wanted the more time to perfect the solo.

"Absolutely!" I said. I arranged the longer lesson with the instructor.

On Thursday, he called after school to tell me he was home.

"How'd the audition go?" I asked, crossing my fingers.

"I didn't do it yet," he snarked. "It's at 6."

I was silent, trying to process that information. Then I realized what it meant.

"Wait..." I said. "Is the audition at the high school?"

"Yes," he said.

This was news to me. I thought it was at his school, during school hours--he'd never once mentioned this little tidbit.

I glanced at the clock. It was 3:45, and I don't get off work until 5. My mind started racing with solutions. The easiest one was to say, "Ride your bike." Except that we tried that the day before, when Mark rode to drum lessons and got lost. He did not have time to get lost today.

"Mark, it takes me an hour and 15 minutes to get home on Thursdays!" I yelled. "Seriously, you're telling me this now???"

"I told you before," he started, but I shut him down. We did not have time to argue.

I finished my work, and took off at 4:30. With any luck, I'd roll up to the curb with moments to spare.

But the traffic gods were on my side (see Kelley, God does look out for fools!), and I arrived at the house at 5:36. I pulled into the school parking lot at 5:40, and asked Mark where the auditions were.

"I don't know," he said. "The auditorium?"

"You're asking me?" I said. "You're the one with all the info. Didn't they give you a flyer?"

"No," he said. "They didn't give me anything."

"Well, let's go look. We're 20 minutes early, but I'd rather be early than late."

Mark looked at the clock, then back at me.

"I said the auditions go until 6," he clarified. "It's not at 6."

And that's when my head almost exploded. No, that is not what he said. I remember, very clearly, his exact words--because he'd uttered them only 90 minutes ago.

We now had mere moments to spare and no idea where to go.

I started with the most logical choice, the band room, where a woman was talking to a mom and a student. Mark tugged at my sleeve urgently.

"C'mon, Mom," he said. "It's in the auditorium."

"Fine," I said. "You go look there. I'm gonna talk to this lady." I pretty mush discounted anything that came out of his mouth now.

The other mom and student walked out with Mark on their heels. I introduced myself to the other woman, who turned out to be the music teacher.

I apologized for being late. "I know the auditions only go till 6--" I started.

"No, they went until 5:15," she corrected. It was now 5:45. "But I can do it now. Do you have the info sheet?"

Smoke came out my nose and ears. I looked at Mark, nervously biting his nails and shaking his head.

The teacher handed me a form to complete. Sure enough, here's the first thing that jumped out at me:

She took Mark into the band room next door, where he banged out some rudiments on the snare drum. I was halfway through the form when he returned.

"That's it?" I asked, still writing. "All done?"

"Yup," he said.

"How'd you do?"

"I dunno," he answered. "She didn't say anything."

An audition that short meant he'd done really, really well, or really, really terrible. It's always a toss-up with Mark.

I finished the form and handed it back to the teacher. And then I asked her to fill me in on any/everything else I should know, since obviously, my messenger was not to be trusted.

She told me about a percussion workshop the next day (required for incoming freshmen). She also told me about the summer music camps--one in July for percussion, another in August for the whole marching band. I immediately noted them in my phone calendar, as the chances of Mark bringing home informational flyers is slim to none.

"Anything else I should know?" I asked.

"Nope, just show up tomorrow!" she told Mark.

But Mark had other ideas.

"I don't have to go to that workshop," he said, as we left the room.

"What part of 'incoming freshmen' don't you get?" I asked. "It's specifically for YOU! You. Are. Going. No more discussion!"

And so he did. Grudgingly. And loved it. And told me he couldn't wait for the second workshop next week.

As for me...well, luckily, I have wonderfully supportive friends.

"Breathe in. Exhale. Don't kill him," my friend Kelley texted me. 

I texted back that I'd save myself four years of stress if I strangled him now, instead of waiting till graduation.

Which prompted her to call and talk me down after the audition.

"You're on speakerphone," I warned, to let her know Mark was also in the car.

"Hi, Mark!" she said. "You're still alive! Boy, do you owe me BIG TIME!"

"You do," I said, nudging him in the ribs. "Seriously."

But Mark just rolled his eyes.

And I did the same. Because yes, the middle and high schools usually inundate me with email and phone calls, but only when relevant to current student activities. Obviously, Mark was in a fuzzy zone here, between schools, and not all that keen on keeping me updated. I'd worry more if I hadn't personally exchanged email addresses with the band teacher, thereby cutting out my not-so-reliable middle(school) man.

I just sighed. And so it begins...I thought. My friend Jill always told me high school rushes by, but now I'm not so sure. He hasn't even officially started yet, and I know this won't be the last time Mark "forgets" to tell me something important. Let's just pray that he (we) makes it out of high school alive!

(And if he does...it will all be thanks to Kelley!)

Problem solving

Mark's only in fifth grade, but he's already fretting about high school.

"Did you know that if you're in the band in high school, they call you a band geek?" he asked. I could see he was having second thoughts about joining the drum line.

I nodded my head, and answered, "Yeah, you know who else was a band geek? Jon Bon Jovi! Paul McCartney! Lady Gaga! Every millionaire rock star out there was probably a band geek."

He looked at me, unconvinced.

"What, you think rock stars don't play instruments until they're famous?" I asked. "Of course not, they learn when they're kids. And how do they get good at it?"

"Practice," Mark sighed. Practice is his least favorite part about playing drums.

"That's right," I said. "And where do they practice?"

"In band," Mark answered. Correct again!

Then I realized maybe I was missing the point here. I was indignant about my kid being called a band geek, when he was actually still years away from joining the band.

This isn't about drums, I thought. It's about being teased. So I tried a different tact. It was self-esteem building time--a little boost now would go a long way in high school.

"How would you feel if someone called you a band geek?" I asked, channeling my own internal Dr. Phil.

"I'd smack 'em with my drum sticks," Mark answered.

I'd hoped for a more...verbal...answer. I suggested some possible comebacks.

"Tell them you're a rock star in the making," I said. "Say, 'I might not look like it now, but someday, I'll be a famous rock star.' Tell them every famous musician started somewhere, and this is where you're starting."

I was prepared to keep going, to keep feeding him politically-correct answers, but he looked at me doubtfully and rolled his eyes.

"What?" I asked. "You don't like my answers?"

"I like mine better," Mark said. "I'm just gonna smack them with my drum sticks. That'll stop 'em, trust me."

He had me there. One good hit would shut me up.

I sighed. "So you're saying even though I'm giving you all these peaceful answers, even though I'm building up your self-esteem, you'd still resort to violence instead?"

"Yup," he said. Now he was smiling. "Bet they won't expect that from a band geek!"

And then I smiled with him. Turns out, he has plenty of self-confidence already.

Drum lessons by Dr. Seuss

Mark temporarily quit drum lessons last summer due to a bout of apathy. He was more interested in horsing around than playing drums, so when the instructor gently suggested I might save myself a few bucks by discontinuing lessons, I hung my head in shame, and did exactly that.

But I'm no quitter, and I determined my son wouldn't be, either. What kind of message was I sending by saying it's okay to quit something just because you're bored? (If that was the case, I wouldn't know any gainfully employed people!) Besides, we have an expensive drum kit that I gave up my garage for, and my sacrifice will not be in vain.

I did give Mark a few months off, though. We focused on soccer, which took up a good chunk of the fall, and gave me a chance to find a new instructor. I figured maybe Mark just needed a new challenge, teaching-wise.

Last night was his first lesson. The new instructor was great: funny, easy-going, but not too much so. He kept Mark on task, even when Mark was distracted by a nearby fancy electronic drum kit. He asked Mark to play along with a couple songs, which Mark did wonderfully. The only blip came when he asked Mark to read the music notes, and Mark forgot some of them. (I wasn't surprised, he's hardly practiced at all since last summer.)

But there was one moment when I knew that Mark and the new teacher would get along famously. The teacher reviewed the notes, but then said, "Now I'm gonna show you the cheater's way to remember them. I'm gonna teach you the right way to read them, too, but just to get started, I'll teach you this shortcut."

Mark's eyes lit up at that.

"You are preaching to the choir," I told the instructor. "This boy is all about the shortcut, and the cheater's way!"

And he was -- Mark did great! The teacher taught him to hit the drums based on the sounds they make: boom for the bass and high hat, chip for the high hat, bap for the snare and high hat. He wrote them out as musical notes on paper, and added a legend with the corresponding sounds. Mark was playing three, then six, different lines of music in no time.

"That's right!" the teacher said. "Boom chip, bap chip, boom boom bap chip! Now do it again." And he repeated himself enthusiastically, playing air drums along with Mark.

At one point, I started cracking up, and they both looked at me. I apologized, explaining that it sounded like Dr. Seuss to me. ("Boom chip, bap chip, boom boom bap chip" -- it just stuck in my head.) It reminded me of the Tweetle Beetle battle from the book Fox in Socks.

Instead of being offended, the instructor smiled and said, "Yeah, it is kind of like that!"

When the lesson ended a few minutes later, everyone was happy. The instructor was impressed by Mark's timing and ability to pick things up quickly, and Mark seemed sufficiently challenged. (He was also thrilled to play the electronic drum kit.) I was just happy to get him back into music.

Who knows if all the love and enthusiasm will last. Probably not, when Mark realizes he'll have to start practicing regularly again. But at least for last night, all was good in the drumming world.

Baby beat box in the howwwwse

I knew it would happen eventually, and in a way, I'm glad. My son has turned into a baby beat box.

Why, do you ask, does this make me happy? Because despite all Mark's protests and railing against drum practice, it's sticking. The lessons, the knowledge, the joy of percussion -- Mark's got it.

I remember my brother Tim and my cousin Michael as boys. They played drums, and they couldn't walk by any surface (including our heads) without drumming on it -- with their fingers, with their drumsticks, with pencils, with whatever. It was a constant beat, a constant movement and noise, and at the time, a constant irritation. (Then again, everything my brothers did when we were kids was annoying!)

But now, as an adult, it makes me smile. Mark's drum lessons aren't just torture any more, he's actually starting to enjoy and retain the information, and the evidence is -- you guessed it -- a constant drumming.

Which is the good news. The bad news, as I mentioned, is the constant drumming on everything, and now, the beat boxing.

It started yesterday as I was getting ready for work. I could hear him dancing down the hallway, grunting and making all sorts of noises. "Boom ba, boom boom ba, boom ba, boom boom ba, eee eee eee eee!" was what it sounded like, but at least he had a pretty good beat going. The boy's got rhythm.

The sounds quieted a bit, and I figured he was getting dressed. Soon enough, they grew loud again, and then louder still, and as I brushed my hair, I realized he was very close. As in, on the other side of the bathroom door, beatboxing his little heart out. I just listened to him and smiled.

Finally, I could stand it no longer. I opened the door, and there he was, not only beatboxing, but dancing as well.

"Yo yo yo yo, Mama!" he sang, throwing his hands in the air. "Boom, boom, POW!"

I couldn't help it, I cracked up. "Yo, MC Marky Mark, go make your bed!" I told him, and he danced off toward his room.

"Boom boom BA!" he replied. I watched him pull the comforter across his bed as he sang out, "Wiki wiki wiki wik!"

And then the littlest human beat box collected his backpack and headed off to third grade.

Never a dull moment in my house, I tell ya!

Rock star

Last summer, I bought Mark a drum set and he was thrilled.

He spent two hours a day the first week pounding on it, then gradually grew bored. (You can only play the same few beats so many times...)

I enrolled him in lessons, and his interest grew again. And then waned again, when he realized he had to practice what the teacher taught him every day. Suddenly the drums were a bit of a chore.

But Mark practiced every day, and as he's become better, it's become less of a chore. He recently graduated to playing along with his first song, Wait for You by Elliot Yamin (who also has Type 1 diabetes, in case you were wondering).

He practiced it for about two weeks now, and he's gotten really good! He actually keeps the beat, and plays along perfectly.

On Sunday, Mark's friends came over to play. "Mom, can I play my song for them?" he asked, and I answered, "Of course!"

Mark led them out to the garage, where they were suitably impressed by the shiny blue drums. They were also impressed by Mark's playing, but most impressed when he finished and let them try.

The girls were especially impressed, and in the back of my mind, a little warning signal went off. Even though Mark's only 9 and uninterested in girls, I had a glimpse of my son's teenage years, and his adoring female groupies, and I got a little worried.

Fawning girls aside, it was a pretty great moment. Mark always gripes about practicing, but it's made him really good. I didn't want to embarrass him in front of his friends, so I listened from the front lawn. As he finished the song, I couldn't stop smiling. I was just as proud of him showing off his drum skills to his friends as he was.

Tales of a one-armed drummer

Walk into my garage on any given day and you'll see an assortment of drum sticks lying on the floor, ready to trip me up.

I've questioned the drummer in residence about this many times, and his answer is always the same: "That's where they go when I drop them."

Which I usually follow up by asking, "Why don't you pick them up?"

"I do," Mark answers. "When I start drumming."

Two drum sticks are usually enough for most drummers. My little drummer boy uses six during his 15 minute daily practice. He sets four of them on the bass drum, secured by the drum hardware. Then he starts practice using the other two.

He usually drops both sticks while practicing, and reaches for the backup sticks on the bass drum. He's gotten pretty good at reaching for a new one seamlessly. I'd be proud except that at the end of practice, he leaves all six on the ground where they fell.

Now picture me carrying full laundry baskets out to the garage and stepping on a rogue drum stick and you'll realize my frustration.

But yesterday Mark hit a new level of laziness. He was playing along to the song "Wait for You" by Elliot Yamin, and he sounded great. I watched him hit the hi-hat and bass drum on the 1 and 3 beats, then hi-hat and snare drum on the 2 and 4 beats.

I went inside for a minute, and suddenly, the beat changed. I couldn't figure out what was different, just that it was. So I poked my head into the garage and there was Mark, playing the snare and hi-hat with just one hand. The other hand was empty.

"Where's your other drum stick?" I asked, and he pointed to the ground. I counted five drum sticks there.

"Pick it up," I told him. "Play it right."

"I'm fine," he said, and kept on playing with one hand. "I don't wanna have to reach aaallllll the way down there to get it." (He was sitting on a drum seat about a foot off the ground.)

I'm sure the one-armed drummer in Def Leppard would cheer him on, but I'm pretty sure Keith Moon and John Bonham are cringing somewhere in the afterlife.

Mr. Passive-Aggressive

Sometimes Mark spouts out whatever he's thinking, and his sassy mouth gets him in trouble. Other times, he gets his point across more subtly.

Last night, I was rushing around the kitchen, making dinner, and Mark kept getting in the way. I suggested that perhaps it was time for drum practice out in the garage. He disagreed. "I don't want to play my drums now!" he wailed.

I finally kicked him out of the kitchen. "PLEASE go find something to do!" I yelled. He stomped off angrily, feelings hurt.

We sat down to eat, and as soon as I stopped moving, I got a chill. "It's cold in here!" I noted. I went down the hall and turned up the thermostat.

After dinner, Mark brought out his new Diary of a Wimpy Kid book. It's a do-it-yourself book, where you can write stories or draw comics. Mark worked diligently on a story while I washed the dishes.

"Hey Mom," he called a few minutes later. "Wanna hear my story?"

"I'd love to," I answered, so he started reading aloud.

"Once there was the meanest mom in the whole wide world, " he started, then immediately stopped. "It's not about you," he said quickly, but as he read on, I had my doubts.

"Anyway...there was the meanest mom in the whole world, and she was always cold. " He shivered for affect.

"The meanest mom was so mean that she waited for everyone to go to sleep, and then she started playing the drums. She played the drums at 2 o'clock in the morning and woke everyone up. She didn't even care, she was so mean. The end." He smiled proudly at me.

Let's see...I kicked him out of the kitchen, talked about drums and being cold, but this story was not about me, huh? Suuuuuure.

Oh well, Mommy Dearest-type books are usually quite popular. Maybe I'm not really being mean at all; perhaps I'm just giving my son a writing career, and lots of stories to include in his tell-all book.

And maybe someday, I won't have to just hear him grouse about my mothering mistakes; instead, they'll be immortalized on the New York Times bestseller list, and I can read all about them.

Or maybe I'll just play the drums at 2 a.m. tonight and see how little Mr. Passive-Aggressive likes that!