Last week was the holiday concert at Mark's school. He said he was playing the sleigh bells for half of one song, so I didn't bother inviting any of my friends along to watch. (With approximately one million basketball games/concerts/Boy Scout activities/school activities/fashion shows a year, you have to choose wisely or you'll burn out your friends!).
So there I was, at the concert alone, sitting in the very last row of the auditorium. I was waylaid by a flash flood on the freeway (seriously!) and a quick stop at home for the child who forgot his mandatory Santa hat, but I finally made it and claimed one of the last remaining seats.
The high school shows are waaaaaaay better than the elementary or middle school shows, because the high schoolers are really talented. There are also way more of them, so the shows are also twice as long, or as long as I can possibly sit for after an hour and a half commute.
Mark's concert band was up first. And there was Mark, onstage, playing his timpani.
Edra would've loved that, I thought to myself.
At the next song, he switched over to the snare drum, rocking out the Christmas tunes like that other little drummer boy.
Kathleen would've been impressed by that, I thought to myself.
For the third song, he switched over to cymbals, and then to the sleigh bells, before returning once again to the cymbals.
That would've impressed Michelle, I thought.
For the next two songs, he played the triangle, the snare drum again, and a giant bass drum that looked like one of those massive Japanese Kodo drums.
In short, he played all of the percussion instruments onstage, not just the lowly sleigh bells. And next time, I'm dragging at least one friend along to keep me company, no matter what Mark says he is or is not playing!
When the band finished, the choir climbed onstage. They all wore red Santa hats too, except for one boy with a giant stuffed Menorah on his head. I liked that kid immediately.
Again, the talent was impressive. The choir sang beautiful Christmas and winter melodies, their voices filling the vast auditorium with song. They sang together, then just the boys followed by just the girls. It was lovely, to everyone except the cranky older lady behind me.
"They're kind of mellow this year," she said loudly. "I wish they'd sing something more lively, like Jingle Bells."
And then, as if they'd heard her, the choir sang Jingle Bells. And she sang along--loudly--with them.
The flag team was next. They filled the stage with their red flags, dancing and twirling them all around. It was amazing how much they moved, considering the number of girls on that tiny stage.
The ballerinas took the stage after the flags. They danced lithely across the stage, an endless number of them jumping out from backstage. They flitted about, also twirling and jete-ing, until the sound guy slipped up and wrecked their music. The song skipped a beat at first, then skipped a longer beat, stuttering until the music suddenly died for good. But the girls never even slowed down--they kept on dancing, right until the very last step, when the crowd erupted into thunderous applause.
Then it was time for the jazz band. They played lots of fun tunes, and sounded great.
It was a lot of show for just five bucks. But it wasn't over yet--it went on repeat, with the choir, dancers, flag girls and jazz band taking multiple turns at more song and dance numbers. My favorite was when the choir brought out not one but TWO Elvises crooning Christmas carols. One Elvis was tiny--not more than five feet tall, a small, skinny little dude with the deepest voice ever. I couldn't believe that deep man voice was coming out of that little kid.
I enjoyed the show, and was glad that everyone got a lot of time onstage to shine for their parents. However, two hours into it, I noticed that the ceiling speakers, air vent and the curtains framing the stage looked a giant face with fangs about to swallow up the dancers onstage. I realized I'd been fixating on that for about 10 minutes, which meant I had certainly exhausted my attention span.
Luckily, the concert band had finished a while, long enough that they'd even put away all the instruments. So I quietly escaped to the lobby, found Mark talking to his friends, and motioned at him to go. It was a really nice concert, but I was hungry, tired, and out of attention.
But I did feel merry, bright and full of the Christmas spirit. And I even got a picture of my musician in front of our Christmas tree!
My Mark is not known for his work ethic. He'll spend 45 minutes scheming to get out of 10 minutes of chores, and he can't understand why that drives me crazy.
He's equally lazy when whether the work is mental or physical. For a long time, I thought "Just tell me" was an endearing nickname he'd given me, because he repeats it so often during homework time.
"Mom, how do you spell 'Christmas'?" he'll yell, and then groan when I answer, "Sound it out."
"Just tell me!" he'll say, exasperated, and then he'll say, "Fine, 'C-r-i-s-m-u-s-s,'" knowing full well that bad spelling is my pet peeve. As much as it pains me, I don't give in, because I want him to learn. (Ha, joke's on me, he'll never learn!)
So when I told him to do his Spanish homework last weekend, he resisted. He waited until the very last minute on Sunday night before he finally started it.
And I knew, as he sat before the computer doing the work, inevitably, he'd ask for the answers.
"Mom, what does 'perry-so-so' mean?" he asked, two minutes into it.
"Look it up," I answered, at the same exact moment he was saying, "I DID! I CANT FIND IT!"
"Sound it out," I said next. "Pre-ci-oso. What does that sound like?"
"Um, precious?" he asked.
"Yup," I answered. (I'm not 100% sure that's accurate, but my little old Mexican aunt always called me preciosa, so I'm going with precious.)
Then Mark frowned. "It's actually perezoso," he said. "What does--" He stopped, knowing my answer, and grumbled instead, "Why do I have to look it up? Why can't you just tell me? Geez!"
And then, I heard him laugh.
"It means 'lazy'" he said, pointing at his book. "Perezoso means lazy!"
"Now that is funny," I answered. "Since you were so lazy about finding the definition."
Mark continued his work, translating sentences about people and then picking the word that best described them based on their behavior.
"Miguel le gusta el deporte, pero no hablar por teléfono o jugando juegos de video. ¿Cómo es él?" Mark read, then correctly translated it. "Miguel likes sports, but does not like to talk on the phone or play video games. What is he?"
He stopped, looked at me and said, "What! Who doesn't like videogames?? Or talking on the phone? Miguel's a weirdo!"
Mark shook his head, but then selected the correct description, Él es deportista. "Miguel is a sports guy," he told me, then said, "OK, I'm done."
"You're not done," I said, redirecting him back to his chair. "Keep going."
Mark clicked on to the next question. He read it out loud, sending us both into a fit of laughter, because it said this:
"Mark doesn't like to work," I laughed.
It was hilarious, and so very fitting. Of all the Spanish names they could've used, they picked Mark, and boy, were they right. My little Marcos spent 20 minutes begging me to just tell him the definition of perezoso, and why? BECAUSE MARK DOESN'T LIKE TO WORK. MARK IS LAZY.
Some moments are teachable moments, and some--like this one--are both teachable and awesome.
Just ask Marcos.
Some people start Christmas in October, others start celebrating after Thanksgiving. But for me, the official celebration begins when the annual Christmas parade rolls into town.
It's a huge parade, with 50,000 spectators. And it's fun, because it's local, so we see people from all different parts of our community, from the schools to the Scouts, to my alma mater, and all our favorite local businesses.
I've been going to the parade ever since I was in college. I've got a lot of memories of it, from the rowdy pre-parties at Michelle's house in our 20s, to the bars we watched from when it was too cold in our 30s, to the first year I took Mark as a 5-year-old wearing reindeer antlers. (He'd just moved in and was super shy, hiding in Michelle's room and refusing to come out. So I introduced him as my new reindeer, and he loved that, smiling and snorting at everyone. He wore those antlers the whole month!)
But this year...this year was the most awesome because I actually got to be IN the parade! (OK, disclaimer: I was in it once before, but unofficially, after a few beers, and a dare from my friends.) This year, Mark's marching band was in it, and I volunteered to help out. (So yeah, I went from parade crasher to parade chaperone, how scary is that?)
First stop was the high school, where the kids suited up, then sat for a group photo (yeah, it was like herding cats). This is the 5,673rd shot...
I took an individual pic of Mark, and learned the only photos teens ever smile in are selfies:
Yeah, he's a charmer, that boy.
Then it was on to the parade. Part of my chaperone duties included driving Mark and two friends, both girls, and this is when the real fun began. The kids started gossiping and teasing each other, and I just drove, silently, but listening to every word. Occasionally, I butted in, mostly when Mark was being rude. I sided with the girls over Mark's bad taste in music, and bonded with them over Mark being a terrible speller (and not caring). I made a couple jokes, and laughed at some of theirs, and then halfway there, the car went silent for a moment.
"Wow, Mark, your mom is cool," Jacey said, smacking him on the head.
"I'm not nearly as evil as he says I am," I explained. The backseat erupted into knowing giggles, confirming this is, indeed, how Mark describes me.
We arrived at the staging area, where I learned the real truth about parades--it's a whole lot of waiting. I stood around for a bit, finally putting on my sweatshirt after the sun went down. My friend Kimberly made it for me when Mark played flag football, and I wore it proudly to every game.
"That's the best sweatshirt ever!" Jacey squealed when she saw it. "You should wear it everywhere!"
"I do," I told her. I smirked at Mark, who sighed, shook his head, and disappeared into the crowd. (Seriously, I want to trade him in for one of my nieces or nephews--you know, kids who like me and are fun, happy kids. They would have loved this parade!)
I tried to take some more photos of Mark (I don't know why I try). He refused to smile in the first one:
This is all I got in the next one, which I've entitled The One Where I Give Up.
"Come on, just smile!" I pleaded. "Or I'm not gonna be your number 1 fan anymore."
Mark's friends cracked up, and Mark once again sighed, rolled his eyes, and slithered off.
We stood around for a couple hours before we actually joined in the parade. I was a little bored at first, but luckily, the high school dance team was with us and they were highly amusing. They teased each other and held dance offs. They sang songs, and they danced. They stole the band's drums, and they danced. They stole the band's cymbals, and they danced. We finally moved up to a street light, where they staged fast walking races every time the light turned green. Those kids were a whole lot of fun, and they made the wait fun.
Finally, it was our time to shine. OK, mostly the band's time, but hey, chaperones get to walk in the parade, too, even if they don't have any musical talent. And that's exactly what I did, grinning from ear to ear the entire time.
It was fun to march through the giant crowd. After a season of endless practices, the band looked and sounded great. They marched perfectly, stopping on a dime when needed, and then slowly, almost invisibly, spreading out to form perfect lines. We parents walked between the drum line and the dance team, both fan favorites, so it was pretty exciting. I shifted between dancing and marching to the beat.
I also waved to the crowd and smacked high fives with all the little kids in the street, right until I hit one kid's sticky hand. Luckily, that happened near the end of the route, where I whipped out a wet wipe and washed my hand.
We made it halfway up 2nd Street when I saw John and Debbie, my brother's in-laws. John was super excited to see Mark and followed him for a block, taking his photo. I thought it was pretty cool that Mark had his own paparazzi.
Before I knew it, we reached the halfway point and the band made a giant u-turn to head back down the street. Somebody blew a whistle, and they were off! I swear, they stepped up the marching to double-speed, and I could barely keep up. (Seriously, people, I have short legs!) But I wasn't gonna get left behind--I kicked it up, too, and kept up with the band, just barely.
The second half went much faster than the first, but it was just as much fun. My face hurt from smiling so much by the time it was over.
It wasn't until the very end that I realized how good this band and these kids really were. They marched effortlessly and played perfectly the whole way. But the minute they turned the final corner, away from the crowds, they lifted their drums and instruments off their slight bodies, groaning from the weight of carrying them for two hours. That was when I saw how heavy the instruments really were, but bless their hearts, not one kid complained. They simply walked the whole street until they came to the truck, and loaded their instruments in.
Honestly, it was a great night. I was so stoked to be part of it, part of the parade, and part of the band, if even for just a couple hours. I love that parade, and the band, and all the adults who lead and teach them with so much dedication. Might have been nice to share some of those memories with my kid, but he was busy pestering the girls and trying to pretend he didn't have a mom (and that if he did, she certainly wasn't here harassing him and ruining his Saturday night).
So get ready, parade, I'm coming back next year!
Mark loves basketball, and couldn't wait to try out for the high school team. Which was fine with me, because the school web site listed it as a winter sport. (Although, as a native Southern Californian, I'm not exactly sure when winter is--December?)
"Great, marching band will be over then," I told Mark. I was glad he'd have an extracurricular activity for each season.
Except...that's not how high school sports work. Turns out the "season" is when games start. But practice starts...the first week of school.
I was really surprised to hear that ("Are you sure??"). But between band and basketball, Mark's had very little time (or energy) to get himself in trouble the past few months.
Mark hasn't played on a basketball team since he was 6, so I also forgot how insane the parents are. (Soccer and baseball parents are tough, but basketball parents are crazy intense!) When I casually asked if the teams had practice over Thanksgiving break, one dad shot me the stink eye.
"It's High. School. Basketball," he said slowly, because what the hell was wrong with me?? "So, yeah...count on practice."
Well, okay, then. So much for Mark's sleeping in late and slacking about the house plans! And so much for my plan to enjoy a couple weeks of quiet after all the band activities.
"We have our first game during the break," Mark told me. He also had his second, third and fourth games--they were playing in a tournament all week.
Unfortunately, I missed the first game because of work.
"It's okay," Mark said.
"What position did you play?" I asked.
"Left bench," he answered. Apparently, he didn't get much game time.
But he proudly modeled his bright blue uniform for me.
"Look at my number!" he said, excitedly pointing to the 1.
I knew his team nickname is Type 1, a reference to his diabetes. (I was appalled to hear that, but Mark thought it was funny.) When they passed out uniforms, Mark convinced Coach to give him number 1, because of his nickname.
I love Mark's sense of humor.
I almost missed the second game, though, because I didn't know Mark actually had two uniforms. I walked in, saw white uniforms playing green uniforms, and left. Turns out the home team uniform is white. And, just to further confuse me, Mark wears a different number with the white uniform--this time he was number 0.
Yes, ZERO. I hoped that wasn't the number of minutes he was gonna play in the game.
But my timing was perfect--Mark jumped into the game when I got there!
He played about 10 minutes. He played exactly like 6-year-old Mark did, mostly just running up and down the court, or standing at the three-point line yelling, "I'm open! Pass to me!" That kid does not have an aggressive bone in his body--he gave himself a wide berth from the opposing players. No one was going to shove or get shoved on Mark's watch.
At half time, Coach lined the boys up to practice shooting baskets. It wasn't very exciting, so I leaned against the wall and played on my phone.
Then, just as Mark ran up to the basket, three young female voices yelled, "WE LOVE YOU, MARK!" Mark smiled, jumped a little higher, and made a basket. He high-fived a teammate, then ran confidently to the back of the line.
I whipped my head around toward the voices. The girls were waving wildly and giggling. I realized they were Mark's band friends, but still...they were girls. Girls yelling "We love you" at my baby boy. And now I had bigger things to worry about than how much game time Mark got.
But it all ended well. Mark's team won with a buzzer beater, and Mark celebrated on court with his teammates. Then he strutted over to the three girls, hugged them, and left with them.
Seriously??? I'm the devoted mom who left work early to come watch a game I have no interest in, and he leaves with the girls? I have seen the future, and it is not pretty. (Well, actually, it is pretty, as pretty as a trio of 15-year-old girls. It's just not pretty for me.)
And suddenly, his team number didn't bother me anymore. Because just like a Disney character, he transformed from zero to hero right before my eyes.
It's gonna be an interesting season, that's for sure.
Our Thanksgiving was uncharacteristically quiet this year, and truth be told, it was kinda nice. I spent the long weekend at home, hanging with my family, sharing meals with friends, and even watching the kid play in his first high school basketball game. It was a good time.
By Sunday, I was ready to get out and do something. So when Edra called with a plan, I jumped (and I dragged Mark along with us).
After a long, unhurried lunch (bottomless mimosas, yuuuuuum!), we headed over to the Museum of Latin American Art. Edra and I were excited because it's free admission on Sundays; Mark, however, was the exact opposite of excited. (This was not his first foray into fine art.)
As we signed in to the museum, the lady at the desk pointed us toward a small theatre. It was showing a brief film about Esterio Segura, a Cuban artist whose work was currently on display.
We patiently watched the film for about 10 minutes, waiting for it to loop back to the beginning as promised, so we could figure out what was really going on. Mark spent his time sighing loudly and fidgeting, stopping only when the desk lady announced she'd loaded the wrong film. He waited until she set up the correct movie, then resumed his sighing (ah, teenagers).
I found the movie and the artist really interesting. He explained his love of airplanes, which started as a young child, and his love of art, and how he married the two together. The exhibit, Goodbye My Love, featured shiny red fiberglass heart-planes, which he angled upwards, as though taking off. The planes were really cool.
Mark, again, was not impressed. He followed me closely, studying the Pinocchio sculptures (there were many) and the mounted paintings on the wall. But he was most interested in a wild kid running through the room, curiously touching the sculptures and giving the security guard small heart attacks.
Mark and I wandered into a second room. We stared at a giant web of clear strings attached to the ceiling and floor, a neon strand of red running through the middle.
"Spiderman was here," I whispered, and Mark finally smiled.
We walked over to a table with lacquered books on it, their pages gutted in the shape of cogs. The cogs were intertwined, and suddenly, there was Wild Child again, moving the cogs like they were puzzle pieces, while her mom leaned on the table and watched a video playing on the wall.
"Wow, wonder what they're making?" Mark asked, sarcastically. "Wait, let me see...a page...some binding...is it? Maybe? Yep, it's a book! They're printing books!"
He raised his arms triumphantly, which stopped Wild Child, but only momentarily. She grabbed for the books, and then the security guard chimed in.
"Ma'am, your child!" he called, pointing at the girl with the art work in her hands. "And ma'am, please don't lean on the art work."
"Sorry!" she said, moving away. She called to Wild Child, and they left.
Once the only interesting thing in the room left, Mark resumed his drawn-out sighs.
"This is so booooooring," he whined, staring at a cage full of paper airplanes.
"Well, sometimes the work speaks to you," I explained, "And sometimes, it doesn't."
He rolled his eyes at me.
"Go find something that does speak to you then," I whispered.
We walked into the next room, which featured giant sculptures on the wall of a human couple, a couple of cars, and an arrow and heart--each pair seemingly engaged in a compromising position. (Yeah, it was a little weird.)
"Please tell me that doesn't speak to you," I said. Mark, horrified, gave me a disgusted look that teenagers worldwide have perfected.
"Oh my God," he whined, rolling his eyes and backing away from me as quickly as he could. He couldn't get out of that room fast enough.
I found him at the next exhibit. He was staring at this piece.
"You learning anything cool?" I asked, nodding toward a docent speaking to a group of guests.
"I think he's just making stuff up," Mark answered. Seriously, he's one tough critic.
I wandered a bit more, eventually ending up where the docent had been. I stared at the painting for a moment, then did a double-take and asked Mark, "Are those...?"
He nodded.
"And are they...?"
"Yep," he said, smiling. "They are."
He looked closely at the title card, confirming what we were seeing. "It's called 'Frogs Playing Tennis.'"
And that's when I almost lost it. Because hey, honestly, I'm just a 14-year-old kid inside, too, especially when it comes to art featuring frogs...playing tennis!
"Now that," I said, pointing to the picture. "THAT speaks to me!"
And we both erupted into totally inappropriate and irreverent giggles, immediately ending our cultural experience.
"Let's go," I told my own Wild Child, ending his misery. He did not argue.
And so ended another failed attempt at schooling my kid in something other than sports. It's pretty obvious he's not a fan of art or culture, but that hasn't stopped me from trying.
Even if his favorite item in the museum was something he found in the gift store...a book about the Lucha Libre wrestlers.
"Now that's cool!" he said, nudging me to buy it for him. He said he'd also settle for a Frieda Kahlo t-shirt, because dang, she has the best unibrow ever.
I'm not sure I should even keep trying at this point...
Mark's taking Spanish in school, which makes for interesting dual-language conversations.
"Yo soy un princesa," he told me the other day, explaining why he shouldn't have to wash dishes. That statement confused me more than a little.
"Um...well, technically, I think you're a princeso, since you're male," I explained. "But that doesn't sound like the right word, either..."
"Yo soy un princeso," he corrected himself, smiling.
"Do you want to be a boy princess?" I asked. "Or are you trying to say you're a prince?"
"I'm a prince," he said. "How do you say that?"
"I don't know," I answered. "Maybe you should be king instead, because I know that one--el rey."
"I don't want to be a king," Mark said. "I wanna be a prince. Princes do whatever they want and if they get in trouble, the king takes care of it. It's more fun to be prince."
I wish I was surprised at that, but I wasn't really.
"So you just want the title, but not the responsibility?" I asked.
"Exactly!" Mark grinned. "Kings work too hard."
"Huh," I said. "That's really interesting. Now wash the dishes!"
He snorted at me, and grumbled under his breath. I couldn't hear what he said exactly, but it sounded like "Princes don't do dishes. You're the mom, you should do them."
I just smiled and handed him the dish soap.
"Yo soy una princesa," I told him, and walked away.
We may not really live in a kingdom, but my house is not a democracy, either.
And sometimes our conversations go like this...
Mark, while doing his homework: This is a weird book...it only has Mexican names in it.
Me: What are you studying?
Mark: Spanish.
Me, after a brief pause: Seriously? You're surprised a Spanish book has all Mexican names in it?
Mark: Yeah, that's weird, isn't it?
Me: Not really.
Mark: I think it's weird.
Me: I can tell. What names should be in there?
Mark: Good names, like Mark.
Me: I bet there are a few Marcos in there.
Mark: Yeah, but my name isn't Marcos.
Me: It is in Spanish.
Mark: But we're not in Spain.
And that is when I lost the conversation. Or won it, I suppose. I'm not sure, really, because Mark just confused me into silence, which was probably the whole point.
Either way, I'm just waiting for him to start his math homework now, and to hear his indignation when he realizes it's full of math problems.
Mark's freshman marching band year ended this weekend with a loss at the semi-final competitions. He was bummed, not because they lost, but because he won't spend every weekend with his friends now.
However, he had one final performance last night. It was the school district band spectacular. All seven high school bands performed, first individually, and then all together. It was pretty darn cool.
I'd seen a couple of the bands perform before. But the cool thing about this was that it was a showcase more than a competition. The kids totally treated it as such--the general mood was more supportive than it had been at any other show (which made sense, since they weren't trying to beat each other).
I signed up to volunteer. My contributions to the band thus far were monetary. I'd donated most of my money, and many boxes of snacks or water. But I wanted to give my time, though Mark was not pleased to hear it.
"You signed up for what?" he screeched. "Wait, what are you gonna do?"
"I dunno," I answered. "I just signed up as a parent volunteer."
"Are you gonna ride the bus?" he asked, nervously.
"I don't know," I answered.
"Are you gonna help hand out stuff?" he asked. "Are you gonna be on the field? You're not gonna help bring the instruments on the field, are you? Because you don't know how to do that."
"I don't know what I'm gonna do," I said, because his faith in me was truly flattering. "You've done this all season long, you know better than I do. I'm gonna do whatever the other adults always do."
"Oh God!" he cried, stomping off. I could tell by his reaction that meant I was riding the bus and completely ruining his entire life, although maybe not in that order.
I wasn't sure what my job was, exactly; I just hoped I could help without getting in the way. (The band is a well-oiled machine, partly because the kids know what to do, but mostly because the band leaders and parents are phenomenal. Watching the dads load the equipment into the trucks is like watching a 3-D game of Tetris with musical instruments.)
I arrived at the band room just in time to watch the chaos begin. I watched 80 kids comb through garment bags, slipping uniforms over their shorts and t-shirts. They buttoned their jackets, slipped on their shoes, then came to tell us they were missing a glove, a sock, a gold braid. (Each statement was quickly followed up with, "And yes, I already checked my bag, it's not in there.") Curiously, the only missing items were items that came in pairs. I have a high schooler myself. I wasn't surprised these things were missing; I was surprised there weren't more missing.
I introduced myself to the other moms, and asked if we were riding the bus with the kids, or driving ourselves.
"All chaperones ride the bus," came the answer. I felt great relief at that; now I knew exactly what my job was, and was not (I was mostly relieved not to break the well-oiled machine before they performed).
Mark hid in the farthest corner of the room that he could, careful not to acknowledge me. I made a mental note to return the favor when he inevitably came looking for concession stand money.
Finally, we loaded up the buses. I made sure to choose the second bus, loaded mostly with the color guard girls. I didn't really want to be on my ingrate son's bus anymore than he wanted me on there.
The bus driver started the engine, and as he did, the color guard started singing. They did a rousing rendition of "99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall," which immediately sent the band members into a tizzy.
"Can you not sing?" the band begged, which made the color guard sing louder. Luckily, they only got to 92 bottles before they finally got bored.
I sat in front of a couple of band boys who discussed important matters such as the iPhone 6, and whether it will eventually become an iPhone 100.
"It's like video game consoles," one boy noted. "They skipped like, 50 versions to go from the XBox 360 to XBox 4."
"They didn't skip 50," his friend answered. "It actually regressed--it went back like 365 numbers."
I frowned--I'm not good at math but 360-4 is not 365. But the boys had moved on to who knew more numbers in the pi sequence.
"I used to know, like, 27 numbers," one boy said. "My 7th grade math teacher said whoever memorized the most got extra credit, and I won!"
"How much extra credit did you get?" the other boy asked.
"Two points," the first boy said. "I wanted to get 3.14 points, but the teacher wouldn't give me that."
I thought he made a good point--the teacher missed an opportunity there!
Soon enough, we reached the school. We unloaded the bus, and the kids made their way over to the trucks to unload their stuff. The dads passed out all the equipment, which the kids immediately started playing. I was amazed to see the instrument pieces fitted together--I never knew tubas came in multiple pieces!
Then it was off to the field for the group rehearsal. The great thing about bands is that if you have a loud voice and a whistle, you can get them to do anything you want. (I could rule the band world if I had a whistle!) The drum majors from all the schools lined up their bands, and within a few minutes, they were playing the group songs.
Mark's band was thrilled, because they play one of the group songs in their show. He was stoked he had to learn one song less than everyone else.
"What are you playing with the group?" I asked, since they don't usually roll out the timpani for stuff like that.
"The tambourine," he said, and I shook my head, because honestly, when you're playing tambourine, does it really matter if you have to learn two or three songs?
The show finally started with the host school's steel drum band. I thought they were awesome, especially when they played "Margaritaville."
The local city college band played too, performing during each of the breaks when the bands took the field.
The next band up was tiny--just the drumline. But they had a secret weapon--cheerleaders. And the minute the music started, those cheerleaders started shaking everything they had. The band boys in the stands went crazy, whooping it up and cheering wildly--they were not cheering for their fellow drummers.
Mark's band went down to practice after them, and I went with them. It was my chance to perform one of the sacred rituals--pluming the hats--and I was nervous. I didn't want to mess this up.
"How about if you get out the plumes and I put them in the hats?" another mom asked. I nodded gratefully. We worked together quickly, until everybody had a tall yellow feather sticking out of their caps.
But just before the band took the stage, the mom came racing back towards me.
"The drumline!" she gasped, grabbing up the bags. Apparently, they'd gone off somewhere separately to practice, and none of the drummers had plumes.
We plumed them all with seconds to spare, and they took their places.
And man, did the band do an awesome job! They've been adding new movements, music and visual effects to each show, and this was no different. The theme was American music, and boy, did they do it justice. My favorite part was when Mark and the rest of the pit crew came marching out at the end, Mark pretending to play a fife, and Abe Lincoln dancing wildly. They were so good, the crowd all around us went crazy (although maybe it just sounded that way because I was sitting with all the other Millikan parents!). I had tears in my eyes at the end, I was so proud of them.
The next band was my favorite (after ours). They walked quietly to the field, until the drum major blew her whistle. That sent them all running in a hundred different directions across the field, but somehow they ended up in precise lines. They played current pop songs, danced around, and the tuba player even sang "Rapper's Delight." (Yes, she put down her tuba first!) She rocked it, although she lost her place a couple times because she was laughing so much. Again, all the bands hooted and hollered, loving the silliness.
At the end of the school performances, the kids filed down onto the field en masse. Even though they only practiced once, they knew exactly where to go, and how to play all together.
I strained to find Mark among them all. I finally did, and was not surprised by where he was--smack dab in the middle of the field. He was near but not with his band, and he was not playing the tambourine. He was playing the cymbals, crashing them together loudly, dramatically, high above his head, with a huge grin on his face. He was having the time of his life.
But he stopped playing during the next song. He held the cymbals at his side, and simply looked around. He watched the different bands playing, and even turned around to watch the musicians behind him. He was slowly taking in the whole scene, and even from the stands, I could see the smile on his face grow bigger and bigger.
And that was my favorite part of the whole show--watching my kid in the middle of all the chaos. He was one of them---he'd found his place, his people, his moment, and he was thoroughly enjoying it all. He wore his school sweatshirt proudly, and he laughed with all his friends, soaking it all in, one happy kid. The sheer joy on his face brought me to tears for the second time that evening.
It was a band spectacular, indeed.
I spent this weekend with my mom, sister-in-law, and Oprah Winfrey, and had the most amazing time ever!
OK, fine, so maybe Oprah didn't sit anywhere near us, but honestly, it didn't matter. She spoke, we listened, and everyone left happy.
Let me back up a bit...Oprah hosted the Life You Want conference in eight cities around the country, and this was the last stop on the tour. I purchased tickets as fast as I could, and dragged my mom and Kim along for the ride. Luckily, they loved it as much as I did.
I wasn't sure what to expect from the event. The web site was vague, stating that we'd have a wondrous adventure with Oprah and her hand-picked trailblazers Deepak Chopra, Elizabeth Gilbert, Rob Bell, and Iyanla Vanzant. It promised to help me envision my next steps to the life I want, and it touted O Town, a pop-up village where I could learn and shop with fellow fans.
Well, I wasn't sure I needed all that, but it certainly sounded interesting. I was in.
My mom and I started our adventure in a long line, where we collected our event wristbands. They were chunky white plastic blocks that looked and felt like house arrest bracelets. I wasn't sure what they were for, but I suspected the tour sponsors used them for marketing purposes.
Mom and I wandered over to O Town next.
I overheard a woman asking her friends what O Town was, and one answered, "It's a place to stand in long lines."
She wasn't kidding--there were lines for all the sponsors. We walked past booths for skin care, cars, and furniture stores, and one that simply read "Go boldy." I wasn't sure what they sold, but I cracked up at the woman behind me who read the sign out loud.
"Go baldly," she read, then asked, "Who wants to go baldly?"
On the center stage, an OWN TV lady interviewed some of the network stars, including our favorite, Kym Whitley. She was hilarious. Iyanla Vanzant came onstage and she was pretty interesting, too. She's usually a little annoying, but she gave some great advice, especially when one woman asked how to make her life happier.
"Being happy is a choice," Iyanla told her. "Just like being sad or miserable is a choice. If you aren't happy, change that. If don't like your life, change it. You have to make the choice, and you have to do the work. No one else can do that for you."
I nodded in agreement. Happy doesn't just come to you--you've gotta go after it. I realized I was gonna learn a lot this weekend, and I was excited!
Finally, it was time to start the show. We followed 10,000 giddy women (and a few less-giddy men) into the arena. Usually, I hate crowds, but this one was different. There was an electric energy in the air. These women were excited, happy, and unbelievably friendly. Everywhere we turned, they started a conversation, offering up chairs, asking where you were from. There were 10,000 people there, but they all felt like friends, neighbors, community...It was fantastic!
We climbed the stairs to the cheap seats, where Kim met us. The crowd waited for Oprah to take the stage, but in the meantime, they were there to party! A DJ played 80s dance tunes, which the crowd loved. (Apparently, all the Oprah fans are my age!) My mom, Kim, and I jumped up to join in the dance party, singing loudly, and busting our best moves.
And then, abruptly, the music stopped. The house lights went off, throwing the arena into darkness. Then Oprah herownself came over the speakers, talking about the beginning of time, when all that existed were the stars in the sky. Suddenly, my house arrest bracelet lit up--it turned blue, flickering like a star. All the bracelets in the arena turned blue, and it did look like a night sky full of stars. The crowd went insane.
Then the blue lights changed to red and yellow, just like the stage colors. A giant sun appeared onscreen, as Oprah said it was the dawning of a new day. The crowd cheered wildly as the sun rose, and then even louder as Ms. O took the stage. It. was. awesome!
When the crowd finally settled down, Oprah spoke. She talked for almost two hours, telling her story. A common thread ran through her stories--of triumph and failure, of second chances, of realizing that your biggest challenges and weakest moments are the ones that make you grow the most. She spoke of life as a series of mountain tops and valleys, and warned us not to get stuck when we hit the valleys.
"Don't let those valleys define you," she said. "Life is a series of highs on the mountain tops and lows in the valleys. But the challenging times are what make you strong, so use what you learn in the valley to make you stronger the next time you're there."
I loved the message. It wasn't anything new, or even wildly original. But it was sincere, and honest, and it was a good reminder. It was like sitting down with an old friend you admire, someone who's always given your good advice. It was a wonderful way to end the evening.
The second day started out with another dance party. It was so much fun to just let loose, to dance wildly without a care in the world. I can't remember the last time I had that much energy so early on a Saturday morning.
Oprah came onstage, and then she brought out Deepak Chopra. He explained the difference between spirituality and religion (spirituality is your connection, your experience with God; religion is someone else's experience, their interpretation of how that relationship). I realized that's how I feel, and why I never really felt much kinship to religious institutions or (in my case) the priests that ran mine. I always felt like I was following their rules and their beliefs, not my own.
Next up was group meditation. I didn't know if that was possible in that giant arena--seriously, just moments before, the music was blaring, and the people were cheering and dancing. But Deepak did it--he quieted the crowd until you could hear a pin drop. He told us to close our eyes and focus on our breathing, and we did. (Well, I did, but then I opened my eyes--the silence was so sudden, it was like the people all disappeared. I had to see if they had!)
When Deepak brought us out of the meditation, I opened my eyes again, feeling strengthened and renewed. It was crazy how relaxed I felt.
The next speaker was Elizabeth Gilbert, author of the book Eat, Pray, Love. I totally dug that book, and I was excited to hear her. She was a great speaker, relaying her story with passion, but it felt different. I'd felt the common thread with Oprah and Deepak Chopra--their stories weren't mine, but I could relate to them.
I couldn't relate to Liz Gilbert's story--it was one of misery and hopelessness. She recounted how she hated her life, her marriage, how she spent every night on the bathroom floor sobbing, searching for a way out. She relayed her desperate conversations with God, and how stifled she felt by her life, but how she didn't was so fearful of changing it and disappointing her family.
It just made me so sad. I've felt low, and I've felt depressed, but that level of unhappiness, at feeling totally trapped in your whole life...I haven't felt that.
So I listened with new ears. Instead of feeling sadness, I felt gratitude.
"Thank you," I whispered to my mom. For not making me doubt everything in my life, or for feeling like all I wanted out of life was an escape, is what I wanted to say. I couldn't really verbalize all that, but she knew what I meant.
I did enjoy the second part of Liz Gilbert's story, though. The soul-searching and relief when she found her way out of the darkness, and The Quest. Her Quest. I was even a little jealous at that point, not because I need a year away from everything to find myself, but because I want to spent four months each in Italy and Bali. That would be amazing...
Rob Bell was up next, and he was pretty good. He also emphasized the breathing, saying that if you are breathing, you get another chance (second chances, breathing, and listening to your spirit were the big themes here). I also liked his message of Love Wins--love always does win, and you have to love everyone, especially yourself.
We slipped out a little early to beat the lunch crowds. It was a good plan, because we beat the lines, enjoying fat shrimp po'boy sandwiches in the sun, and recounting our morning.
After that po'boy (OK, and a beer), I was a worried I might be a little sleepy for the afternoon sessions. But Oprah thought of everything--she brought our some Soulcycle instructors, who got the crowd on their feet and moving. We waved our arms, our legs, exercising in our tiny spaces, 10,000 lit-up bracelets moving up and down in sync. It was the perfect way to get everyone motivated--I was wide awake for the rest of the afternoon!
The last speaker was Iyanla Vanzant. She was good, much funnier than she is on her TV show.
"I like her better as a comedienne," my mom said, and it was true, she was pretty dang funny.
Oprah closed out the show. She brought all the trailblazers back onstage for a final round of questions and applause, but they turned the tables on her. It was the very last show of the tour, and they wanted to thank her. Their heartfelt speeches made everyone in the arena, including Oprah, tear up. We all left feeling great--invigorated, inspired, and ready to change the world.
But first...dinner with my family. It was great to see my brother Tim, and my niece and nephew. (Heck, it was just nice to be around teenagers who were actually glad to see me--my surly teen is never happy to see me!) We laughed so much around the table that my face actually hurt. And we laughed just as much the next day, hopped up on cupcakes and sugar.
Overall, the weekend was one of the best ever. I learned a lot, but mostly, it was just a great reminder that I am living the life I want. I surround myself with uplifting people, I travel and spend time with my family--the things that really fuel my spirit. I don't waste time anymore on people who don't have time for me, or energy-sucking people.
So I didn't walk away with any new, shocking revelations or fixes--I walked away with reminders to keep moving forward on my path. Follow the light, like the ever-changing colored bracelets showed me. Remember what I learned in the valleys, remember that every day is a second chance, like Oprah said.
And most importantly, remember that being happy is a choice. I choose happiness, and I will do the work.
I am filled with gratitude--to my parents, for raising me to be strong and loving, and to this weekend, for reminding me that I'm on the right path.
Thank you, Oprah!
Mark loves to smell good. Not good as in, "I shower daily to smell fresh and clean," but good as in "I love me some artificial spray that covers up my natural...scent...so that I don't have to shower!"
Yeah, that kind of good.
He once received a Christmas-themed can of body spray that made him (and the 20 feet surrounding him) smell like pine trees. Mark wore it year-round, a waft of pine forest mingled with grubby boy sweat following wherever he went. It was not my favorite smell.
Now that he's a teenager, he doesn't mind showering, and he's got a whole new set of smells to apply. He uses approximately one cup of mouthwash daily, and showers with a pungent Axe body wash. He uses a musky Old Spice shampoo and conditioner, which coordinates nicely with his Old Spice Fiji deodorant. And occasionally, he still adds the pine tree body spray, which apparently has a life-time supply in that bottomless can.
He is a walking cornucopia of what a man should smell like. (According to teens...) On a related note, I now take a daily allergy pill thanks to the artificial sprays.
Usually, I can combat these overpowering smells by just opening the windows. But the other day, I walked in to a full-on nasal assault so strong, it actually made my eyes water.
"Oh...my...GOD!" I cried, rubbing my eyes. I thought maybe the local SWAT team had lobbed in a couple tear gas grenades while I was out.
Luckily, I was home just long enough to grab some papers and get out. I figured whatever that smell was, it would die down by the time I came home later.
But I was wrong. It was just as strong. I tugged at my shirt, pulling it over my nose in a makeshift mask, and investigated.
After a brief search, I found the culprit:
I also found the top to the culprit, unceremoniously tossed nearby, and immediately re-capped it. My eyes stopped burning as soon as I put the top back on.
Mark entered the house a few minutes later, and had the exact opposite reaction. He breathed in deeply, smiling, using his hands to direct the scent toward his own nose.
"It smells so gooooooood in here!" he sighed. "Did you buy a new candle?"
I just stared at him in disbelief. Finally, I handed the deodorant over to Mark.
"You forgot to put this away," I told him. "It was stinkin' up the place!"
"That one's for school," he told me, stuffing it into his backpack. "I use it for basketball."
And sure enough, he was right. Because when I went in to the bathroom, there was a another (capped) deodorant on the counter.
It had this sticker on it, which cracked me up:
I giggled as I put it away. Because I certainly don't like the smell, but at least I like Old Spice's sense of humor (and now I know what sunshine and freedom smells like!).
