It was both brilliant and ridiculous. I dreaded it and relished it at the same time. It was a contradiction from the moment the idea was hatched.
It started in the form of an innocent looking note on pink paper that came home from school in my son’s backpack. The 6th grade band would be taking on a new project. Each member of the band would be demonstrating their knowledge to another adult. It all sounded like a great idea to me until I got to the part with the meat of the project. The best way to demonstrate what they’ve learned, the note explained, is by teaching someone else to play their instrument. Not only that, the best way to prove that their lessons have been effective is to hold a concert at which the parents can then demonstrate their new found skills before a snickering audience.
And so, that’s how I discovered I would soon be taking trombone lessons, since naturally John’s father would be conveniently and safely out of town on the night of the required performance.
The lessons were absurd, as I attempted to spew high and low spit-splattering notes through the metal mouthpiece presented to me by my trombone wielding son.
“Mom relax your air,” he tried to explain to me as I grew red faced and burst into laughter. “Mom don’t make your lips so tight.”
“Mom, don’t puff out your cheeks,” he would say as he put his hands on his head in dismay.
Then came “Mom you don’t have to play so loud,” once we finally graduated to making sounds.
But, in spite of my lack of natural talent, my son turned out to be a gifted instructor and I finally mastered four notes which I tortured into a version of Hot Cross Buns.
I must say, there was a certain feeling of pride and accomplishment that washed over me when I belted out a nearly flawless Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.
And I admit seeing my son emerge as a patient, shy, yet attentive teacher made the project more than bearable. It was a time filled with sweet moments of praise showered over me for the most horrendous noise that sent the rest of the living creatures in our house to the basement. “Did you hear that,” I would yell after practicing. “The whole neighborhood can hear it!” would be the reply.
Finally the night of the concert arrived. Ready or not we would be showing our stuff. For his part, John looked stiff and uncomfortable in his brand new black pants and button down white shirt band attire. But to me he was the epitome of that middle school rite of passage caught smack dab between little boy and young man. I had to resist squeezing him.
The Middle School Gym was the site. The acoustics perfect for the occasion. The real band played their music beautifully before an audience of proud parents and relatives. Then the moment of truth; the parent band sat warming up in the seats our children had just vacated.
During the first song I couldn’t help but laugh because even though it was so loud I couldn’t hear the notes I was making, I sensed that they were all wrong, every one. And yet, when I glanced over, there was John applauding, and laughing with his friends. Afterward he patted me on my back and said, “You did good, Mom.” Gazing back into those thick eyelashes and radiant smile, I felt like we were comrades for a brief moment, walking away from a shared battle of sorts that only the two of us could fully appreciate. I gave him a quick hug and I realized he was right, I did do good.
