Family Music Night was a fantastic idea, for the kids. Once we arrived, however, it was family out the window and every man for himself. A word to the wise, a set of industrial earplugs should have been requisite.
There was anxious talk about it all afternoon. We were “encouraged” to hurry through dinner so that we could arrive as early as possible. Fretting ensued because I wasn’t driving fast enough. Logan jogged from the parking lot to the school, the rain streaming off him like he was a duck.
And when we got there, it was amazing. It was amazing that I didn’t become homicidal or punch someone in the throat. He spent exactly 15 minutes running from one instrument to the next, at the “instrument petting zoo”, making more noise than I ever thought was possible. Such a cacophony I had never heard before. First, the bass drum, then the snare and finally the cymbals. He tried a woodwind during a momentary lapse in judgment but it was too serene. No blistering flute solo here. Instead, we had the percussion line from hell.
A network of a hundred of his little friends were only too eager to join in, having the time of their lives. I felt like they were missing a recovery tent for the parents. Busted ear drums is now a sport. And where was my wife? At home - with a quiet book.
- 1 February 2018
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