Concerts and Kids. The Chicago Waldorf School Holiday Concert was last night.
Cole isn’t big on performing. If at all possible, he will stand behind a kid taller than he is and move his lips every once in a while. I have learned to accept that you can drive a kid to their holiday concert but you can’t make them stand so you can see them—or sing. For this concert, I tried a little Santa persuasion and reminded him that the jolly big guy might be watching his performance, to which he replied, “Mom. I know dad said he could listen to my concert more fully with his eyes closed … but he was sleeping.”
Concert attire. The school makes a simple request. Black pants, white shirt. The night before the concert, I suggested Cole pull out his white shirt and black jeans. I also suggested he write a note and stick it on the back door to remind us to take the clothes to school in the morning. Rolled eyes; in an exasperated 14-year-old tone, “Mom, I won’t forget.” Yes indeed, I fell for it—again. Half way to school, we realized the concert clothes were at home. Not a problem, I will arrive early for the concert so he can change into the appropriate clothes. I return home, write a note, and stick it to the back door to remind myself to take the clothes to school, and check to make sure the black jeans and white shirt are clean. They are clean, but because the white shirt has fallen off the hanger (Cole’s clothes seem to be allergic to hangers), it is wrinkled. I don’t iron (ever) but I’m a ninja master at steaming clothes while I shower. I steam out the wrinkles, remember the clothes, and manage to get them to school in time. Guess what, the black jeans don’t fit. Kids know just how to soothe you, “It’s OK Mom, some of my friends are just wearing jeans.”
Don’t you just hate kids sometimes?
It was comforting to walk into the church where the concert was being held and join my fellow comrade at arms. We looked into each other eyes acknowledging we had fought the hard battle and prevailed.
The concert began, and I was amazed to see my kid front and center, drumming his African drum—in his jeans and semi-pressed white shirt. My son the drummer.
Our holiday concert was magical. Beautiful music; outstanding singing; mismatched, wrinkled, Waldorf children; directed by our talented and amusing musical director, Jeff Spade.
Before leaving the church, I stop to light a candle for Joe—he wasn’t sleeping, he was laughing. I threatened to light the candle for a nicer soul and he reminded me that I would never have found the parking place directly beside the church if he had not provided a little divine intervention. Sighing, I had to agree; finding parking spots are the bane of my existence. As I waited in the car for Cole to join me for the ride home, I turned the radio on and listened to the song Imagine by John Lennon.
★~♥~♥~★~ ♥~★~★~♥ ~