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...
