There are a few statements destined to strike fear into any parent’s heart.
“I’m pregnant and dropping out in year 8.”
“I’m taking up base jumping.”
“I’m [insert your own worst fear right here].”
Given that my guys are so young, our statements of intent are not quite to that standard yet. Which is not to say that we don’t have our moments. The six months or so when Mr6 (then three) fell in love with Sam Moran, the then-new yellow Wiggle, and wanted to wear only yellow shirts and be addressed as Sam were trying.
“I am Sam,” is not as cute outside a Dr Seuss book.
Our current phase, what I like to call the Concert Phase, is proving to be more so. There is something about the statement “We’re going to do a concert for you tonight” that makes me thrilled and appalled, all at the same time.
I do love it – the earnest performance, the desire to be with us and make us happy, the fact that they want our approval. But at the same time…
A concert, I need to point out, involves Mr6 banging on a selection of makeshift drums for what seems like, oh, hours, while Mr3 blows on the ear-shattering whistle that keeps finding its way back into the house no matter how many times I lose it. All the while, The Builder and I sit with what we hope are expressions of parental love and pride. Inwardly, I’m wishing I could hide in a cupboard. He is no doubt made of stronger stuff.
Then again, we found ourselves having a whispered conversation in the linen press tonight. A concert had been announced. Whereupon The Builder decided to take himself off to the shower.
“You can’t abandon me,” I hissed over a pile of sheets.
“You’ll be fine,” he mouthed back, patting my hand. “I’ll be with you in spirit.”
My parents will read this and know that Karma is real.
They will remember the thousands of hours of ‘concerts’ they sat through in the living room, watching us sing and dance like the worst Idol contestants ever.
They might recall the epic concert performed in the neighbour’s garage to the entire ‘You Can’t Stop The Music’ soundtrack – and the coin donation they had to pay for the privilege.
My Dad will no doubt be able to bring to mind the thousands of hours of actual ballet concerts he endured. To the point where he perfected what is generally known in the family as his ‘Concert Face’. It’s an outward expression of polite interest, but you know that, behind it, the man is sleeping.
All I can hope is that the guitar lessons kick in soon and Mr6 at least will begin serenading us with something vaguely musical. Until then, I’ll be the one working on my Concert Face.