A week ago I said to a mother new to the neighborhood, a child in marching band means you are married to the band from mid July until the football team looses a playoff game, hopefully earlier than the championship game on Thanksgiving.
"Actually, Gramma," interposed Laura, "you are not married to the band. You are only engaged."
I deal with three hour practice once a week, but games every Friday night are beyond the pale. Every week I read a new email asking for volunteer parents for concessions or bus monitors or some other fool thing. When pigs fly! This band grandmother will never be out in sub-cold weather on behalf of the band.
I found a lovely little web site that recaps the plays and scores--if there is a volunteer score keeper. I see this year the job has devolved to the coach to keep the site updated. It's the second quarter of tonight's first playoff game, and the score has changed hands three or four times. Must be exciting, jumping up and down and rooting for the home team.
But I keep an eye on the quarter and minutes so I have an idea of when to get in line at the high school to pick up our little trumpet player. In my defense, she knows less about football than I know, including players running on the field means the game started.
Married or not, band consumes a lot of time. This week, band and other stuff consumed so much of my week that a couple of projects at work were niggling my conscience. Tonight I dropped Laura at the band door, finally wearing sweats under her uniform, and went to work for a couple of hours.
The projects are put to bed, and I am home, and waiting to leave to get in line. It is 9:15 pm, the score board web site just posted half time. The home town boys are losing by three points! Be still my heart; for the first time in five years post season may end in one game! Another ninety minutes plus time outs, plus two bands performing, and I can leave.
When I left work, it was dark, dark, dark, and only a tiny sliver of moon. This tree had an eerie glow. Come back tomorrow to see if my relationship with marching band is over for this year.