Band and Momming

Y’know, this parenting stuff is hard.
This weekend my Bubs and his exemplary band mates won the State title for their high school division band. They broke a 10-year winning streak for the 2nd place finishers, who quickly rounded up a social media campaign claiming otherwise, fighting tooth and nail for their “right” to the title, diminishing our kids’ hard work. Sore losers.
The real crisis came for me and this parenting stuff.
The hours! The early mornings, the late afternoons, all the heavy lifting and quick pushing and uniform washing, all paid off bigly.
As a parent, I couldn’t wait to rush the field for congratulatory hugs and Big Time Momming, and there’s my boy, 6’3, relishing his moment, and my heart swelled one hundred sizes for pride in my young man, near-adult, glorious individual relishing his moment with his friends and bandmates.
Such dichotomy: revel in the victory, but from over here, because I did my job and look what happened? My baby grew up.
So I cried happy, happy tears and heart-rending sobs for the glory that is parenting.
It’s not for the faint of heart.

Band Momming Continues

Saturdays are FULL during band marching season.
After 4 or 5 of these competitions, I’ve got my Go bag ready: Gatorade, Farkle dice for down time, money for all the accessory vendors my son spots — Cane’s chicken, Mazzio’s pizza, all the big names come play but funnel cake was all mine; I’ve never whipped out seven bucks for fried dough so quickly in my life — fresh socks, a teen boy’s shoes (separate Ziploc, green closure for ensured safety.
My point: I’m ready for anything.
Then there’s the marimba pushing.
I know I’ve told you one or two little vignettes about marimba moving. ‘Tisn’t easy, rest assured. My quads light up with effort.
So I was certain I was prepared for the last round of percussion pushin’. Especially since the terrain was NOT mountainous like in previous weeks. In fact, it was downright dull…straight-line drives, ample space, paved walkways, easy peasy, and along the trek I tried to chat with my marimba-ist — a waif, pale, slight (my left thigh weighs more than she does), golden hair, big blue eyes, and mute as a stone — to no avail. Buttoned up like an 1800’s corset, I tell you. All my wiles and attempts at chatter fell on deaf ears. (Maybe she’s deaf?)
And after a non-adventurous trip to the field, we had to wait, all 22 of us percussionist parents, for…something. I was unclear. The sidelines were clear, I saw no impediment, I knew not why we waited.
Thus did I make one last attempt at convo. “You nervous?”
A shake of the head, which encouraged me. “You’re gonna do great!” I announced grandly, for which I got a most basic nod and near-eye-roll.
“You got this,” I muttered less enthusiastically as finally we were waved forward for set-up on the turf.
Set up, got a final nod from the unwilling recipient of my help, and I trotted to the sidelines.
Magic happened, as the band played their halftime show for the seemingly-one-zillionth time — each of which I watch with so much anxiety that I lose three pounds; I’m like a Tan and Tone machine in a fleshy wrap — and I marched right back out to the side of my best little frenemy to aid her against her will.
“You were so great! What a show! It felt so new”
Sure, I was reaching, desperate to get to this tiny mite’s inner core and make her like me.
I hear the percussion leader say, “Ready for power, ready for power,” and kids are streaming around grabbing extension cords, power outlets, microphones, no big deal. Power needs picking up, gotcha. Take with ye what ye brung, got it.
And before I took a breath to look to my left, my tiny acrobatic marimba-ist had gotten behind her set of keys and RUN, like a mighty wind, AWAY from me. She was a foal, hair streaming, practically frothing at the lips to get away from me.
“Hey!” I yelled. “I’m helping you!!”
And I began pursuit.
It took a minute, I can tell you that, what with being weighted down with my Go bag and a strong desire to be helpful. I thought actually that she was going to run me over and if not for a fortuitous tripping on my clumsy part, I could have been down. Medics called. The whole nine yards, right there on the football field. (I made a sports reference, did you get that? It’s rare, that’s why I’m pointing it out, so you’ll appreciate its uniqueness.)
“Whew!” I said when I finally caught up and had a tenuous grip on one side of the instrument. Fortunately she’d slowed a bit, maybe her battery needed changing, but this ol’ girl finally caught up. “You’re all muscle,,” I wheezed toward her, glowing, trying to compliment, trying to reach her core.
It was a long quiet walk back to the trailer where I bid her a hearty adieu and much success in the future. She ignored me completely.
Come to find out: “Power” means: run like you’re on fire. Points off if you don’t leave the field in x number of nanoseconds.
Also of Note: talking on the field — anywhere on the green turf stuff — even if it’s by a big ol’ nerdy mom who just really really reeeeeeaallly wants to help — points off.
Welp. Now I know.
And perhaps I’ll help another child with an equally large bit of equipment, probably not my son, because he shoos me away…
No funnel cake for him, I tell ya.

The Bloat

This week has been all about Band Momming, Tornado Watching, and Jobbing.
The band mom part was fun. The rest is all stress, all the time. Tornado sightings for two nights already this week and it’s only Tuesday. Leave work, park in front of the TV and watch meteorologists compete with each other across channels for the prime shot of a funnel.
It’s quite entertaining.
And in Oklahoma, this is really a Spring sport. October storms, well, that’s extra.
As with most sports — all the ones I watch: Superbowl, tornado chasers, and Band; they’re sports, prove they’re not — I snack.
My new snack of choice: Julio’s Original Seasoned tortilla chips.
To know: I’ve been curbing the gluten since the first of September in solidarity with my Bubs’ sensitivity to the carb loaded glue that makes bread taste oh-so-good.
Thus the tortilla chips; no gluten, still fun.
Perhaps I’ve indulged overly much in my gluten-free lifestyle, because after so much time Tornado Sporting and Tortilla Gulping. well, it’s no fair at all, but my Go To Shorts did NOT rise properly up my suddenly bloated thighs. No forgiveness whatsoever; two excited puffer fish, those are my thighs.
Who knew that excessive salt was so cruel?
Today, I threw myself into the Diet Overload: no carbs, no gluten, no salt. Can you believe it? It’s awful, after so many days of gluttony, nada.
And a tornado is bouncing across the state. Come on! I’m human! What fun snack is there for me NOW? I mean, my goodness, the funnels are up and down and running and being chased by hordes of people. Stress is high, snacks are required! n
But my big ol’ thighs say no.