My thirteen year old son, the subject of my last post, has only increased his level of dork by joining junior high band and bringing home a school issued trumpet today.
Don't get me wrong about the dork crack. I love dorks. I'm a dork. My husband is awfully dorky. Between the two of us we cannot help but produce dorky children with dorky mannerisms and dorky interests. My middle boy can't get enough Minecraft, draws his own panel comics, and is set to improve his pucker in the brass band. My oldest son manhandles Rubik's style puzzle cubes and my youngest son makes jokes Thor's butt. None of us can do a single pull-up.
Music is an excellent occupation for my boy. I participated in marching band myself. Some of my best memories stem from carrying around a flag with the rest of the twirlers and hanging my A cup bras off the back of the band bus. However, I was never all that musically inclined and it makes me happy that my son will learn. Music supports math and English skills besides being all, like, expressive and stuff.
Yet, it's a trumpet, and that's a misery all it's own.
The first practice blast this afternoon scared my cats and made the squirrels living in my backyard dart back into their holes.
A long toot testing lung capacity made my manchild emerge from his cave and ask if the zombie apocalypse was underway.
Fiddling with the keys made a farting noise which caused my youngest boy giggle, and then run in circles blowing raspberries flapping his hands to fan the "smell" behind his butt.
The spit valve was checked and checked again, without any sort of tissue to blot with, which made rubbing it against the carpet a logical alternative.
The cats were shoved off the open trumpet case because they were sure it was the newest spot to nap. I'm not paying 500 bucks for a replacement trumpet because the first trumpet has become clogged with cat hair.
Is Wynton Marsalis' mother still alive? Can I ask her about this?
Our music teacher did give me some warning about impending trumpet doom last Friday night at a costume party, over plates of another teacher's succulent swedish meatballs, so I could plan which part of the house would be relegated to trumpet practice.
She knows I have a small house.
Then she laughed at me.
Meh. I'll still drive her to her acupuncturist if she buys me lunch.
Friday, November 02, 2012
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