Confessions of an aging modern mom (Alternative title: “A woman has needs”)
I work til 6:20 and am supposed to catch Johnny's baseball game that began at 6 and then go to Ethan's concert, leaving my dad home with a frozen pot pie after the rest of the family has had hot dogs for dinner again. I make a point of mentioning to my dad that it is not the best choice but they are at least nitrate free.
I arrive at the game about ten minutes before I should be at the concert, but since my kid is in the Senior Band I figure that, although it is terribly bad form to show up late, I will have to so I can take in a few minutes of my other son's game while the junior band is playing their numbers. The real reason for stopping in at the game is so I can get some dinner. I am starving. To death, practically. I drank protein shakes all day and am shaking from lack of real nourishment. I march up to the snack bar and purchase a nitrate-laden hot dog and a bag of popcorn. There is no real beer (sadly) so I get the next best thing – a root beer. I sit on some bleachers, take a much-needed breath and sink my teeth into my hot dog, with a bit of aluminum foil for good measure. Ahhh. Finally time to relax and watch a game. My pocket vibrates and I see that Russ is texting me that the orchestra, of which my son is a member, is on first. When I was young, we played ONE instrument, but life was so much simpler in those days. I gobble my hot dog and grab my unopened popcorn and rootbeer (thank goodness the can is still sealed) and rush to the car. Mr. Mehaffie's mantra is that if you are on time you are late, so I arrive at 7pm on the dot and catch the second half of the first number.
I know that no one does this stuff on purpose to shame latecomers, but the door to the gym squeaks extremely loudly and I am glad that I had not waited until between numbers to open it. I see a music stand holding a stack of programs, which I need so that I will know when to run out again, but the stand is in view of all of the onlookers, so I have a short walk of shame to collect it. Late. Another parent squeaks through the door and I show him my program. He gives me a very appreciative look and says a very kind “thank you” and takes it. Not only do I have to again do the walk of shame, even later, to get another program but I also don't want him to feel badly that he has taken my program. I finally pay attention to the music and am delighted to discover that I have a nice clear view of my son. Until I see the high water pants, the ratty sneakers and the outgrown shirt that I thought I had buried in Johnny's drawer so that Ethan doesn't remember he owns it and takes it back or tries to beat up his brother for taking his shirt. And I don't know how he can read music from under that mop of hair he has been asking me to cut or get cut for months. I a, so consumed with his attire that I forget to obsess about the fact that he never ever practices his violin.
Ok, the Orchestra has finished. Time to sneak out before the next band starts and get back to the game. Again, I know that it is terribly bad manners to leave after your kid's performance, but manners or no manners, I just have to get back to my dinner. My stomach is turning inside out. The car reeks deliciously of popcorn but I abstain until I get to the game. I find a place on a little grassy incline, take a bite of popcorn (not worth the wait or the calories) and a sip of my root beer and decide I need some salt. I see the guy whom I almost blew up with the grill on the day of my stint as a snack bar walk by away from the ball field, so I figure it is safe to approach the snack bar. I sprinkle a ton of salt on my popcorn, citing low blood pressure as my license to do so to a woman who couldn't care less and go back to settle back on my little hill for a bit of peace and popcorn. I discover that my root beer has been perched, and, subsequently overturned on the hill and so without any admonishments to myself or angst of any kind, I march to the snack bar to purchase another one. I need something to cut the grease of the popcorn and that is that. On the way back I see someone I know walking by with cupcakes. “Cupcakes!” I scream to myself. “Someone has time, not only to show up at their kid's game, but to show up with cupcakes!” I try to imagine having the time, wherewithal or desire to even think of making cupcakes. I mention this good-naturedly to the woman with the cupcakes who I know is as busy as I am, and she mentions that she doesn't have time either but she got up at 5 am to make them. I digress, as usual. Anyway, this time I sit on some nice flat bleachers and eat and drank. I am only about a third of my way through the bag of popcorn and just barely over the threshold of nausea (which usually takes at least 2/3 of the bag) when I get a text that the Senior Band is starting. I dutifully jump up and rush to the car. The wrong one of course, as I seem to have this propensity to just rush to and open any car that has a color that remotely resembles that of my own, but after whipping it open, letting out a kind of yelp and closing it again, I look around and see that no one is the wiser, so I get into my own car and drive away, narrowly missing my friend's mother who is crossing in front of me (sorry Heather, “narrowly” was a bit of an exaggeration).
I am locked out of the school but a woman sees me on her way out and holds the door open for me. She also accidentally slams it with a sound that rivals a gunshot. However, when the people near the door hear it between music pieces, they look back and see me through the window of the inner door standing there, innocently. I wait for the music to start and sneak in as unobtrusively as possible given the squeaky door. I breathe and watch the rest of the concert in an utter state of relaxation. And indigestion. I see my boy playing music and muse that he is correct, there are a lot of hot girls in the flute section. Not that I am seeing them that way myself, but through the eyes of a 7th grader. And I thought Ethan chose the flute to save me buying one as I have my old one lying around.
When I get back to the car, the kids devour the remnants of my sad little dinner, but I do not care. I have not seen them all day (except from a distance with an air of perceived and projected judgment) and embrace them. Or at least I try.
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