Lately, on our afternoon walks, I've noticed the faint sound of a drumline practicing in the distance. This has lead to nostalgic memories of marching band, which, I'll admit, was 99.9% torture. From the 100 degree, 40-hour August Band Camp week to the frostbitten fingers on metal piccolo of late November, it was brutal.
Naturally, I subconsciously sought a mate who had gone through similar trials; another Band Kid. Little did I know while dating that Nick, a talented french horn player, was a marching band impostor. He attended approximately 10% of rehearsals. His uniform was...get this...a sweatshirt and jeans.
A sweatshirt. And jeans.
No starched white gauntlets, no tall feather plume. No oppressive uniforms individually tailored by loving band moms to fit an army of gangly teens. Sorry, honey, but we were in different leagues.
Which leads us to another dilemma. When a spit-valve-spewing brass marries a prissy-perfectionist-woodwind, to which instrument do we direct our posterity? The only neutral territories are piano, strings, and *shudder* percussion. We'll just have to see where her natural tendencies lie, because in the end she's going to grow up to be whatever she wants to be...as long as she's in the band.