- There is an alarm that sounds like a bicycle bell that is randomly going off in the house. I don’t know where it is coming from, but it is slowly driving me nuts.
- Donald Trump is a good showman (showboat?) and knows how to grab ratings. I suspect he wakes up in the morning, puts on his orange spray tan, carefully constructs his comb over, all the while wondering what outrageous thing he can do that day, and who else he can piss off. At the end of the day, he sits at home in amazement that people still like him. I don’t think he’s serious about being president. I think he is single-handedly pulling back the curtain on the GOP party and showing the world just how ridiculous they have become. The Democrat side must be giddy.
- I wonder if the women who interrupted Bernie Sanders’ speech in Seattle were aware he is the candidate who has been the most active in the Civil Rights movement out of all the candidates.
- I have decided not to call anti-abortion people Pro-Lifers. Instead, they shall be known as Pro-Birthers. Once you are out of the womb, you are a burden on taxpayers, and how dare you suckle off the government teat! I wonder how many of those unwanted babies the Pro-Birthers have adopted?
- My first day back to work was yesterday. I did well, didn’t cry or anything. I did miss my Lil G, but it was nice talking to grown-ups again. Of course, I did find myself looking at pictures of Lil G when I had downtime.
- There goes that bell sound again!
- The house next door continues to be for sale by a realtor that doesn’t give a shit about selling the house. The grass and weeds are overgrown. The house looks sad. I get sad when I see it. It makes me think of Mr. Recommendation. Regardless of how he lived, he deserved better.
- Log said after all the pets were gone, we were done with pets. Recent events have put dog ownership back on the table. I already have a name picked out for the German Shepherd I am going to get. Log wants an Alaskan Malamute.
- I feel that the militarization of our police departments is why we are having the problems with the police now.
- I’m not a sanctimommy. I want to punch these women right in the baby-maker.
- I’ve decided that traveling with an infant is like traveling with an I.E.D. That sucker could go off at any minute!
- Where is that bell??
I have an interest in genealogy. Part of it comes from growing up Mormon. The other part comes from having a really shitty family. On my dad’s side, it’s loaded with narcissistic alcoholics, so it is extremely difficult to find any redeeming value in them, save for a few. I have to go even further back in my family tree to find a lineage to actually be proud to tell my daughter about. That being said, some research into my family revealed that my family can be traced all the way back to when they came over from Europe, which was before there was even a U.S. of A. My progenitors sailed over, fought in the French-Indian War, the Revolutionary War (so I guess that means I am eligible to be a DAR member), and the War of 1812. They settled down and established a foothold in Virginia where they flourished.
My family was among the original Americans!
A some point, a large group ventured off and settled in Tennessee. The Civil War came along. My direct family line split off and fought for the Union Army while the rest of them sided with the Confederates. It’s entirely possible they may have met on the field of battle on opposing sides, but I’ve not found anything to support it. However, I’m sure this difference of opinion and alliance made for awkward family gatherings.
My Redneck Brother, in all his NASCAR loving glory, always liked to show off the Confederate flag. When I would chastise him for it, he would regurgitate that cop-out line, “Heritage, Not Hate!”. Until I dug into our family history and discovered our black-sheep, Yankee-loving lineage and corrected him. He never again uttered that phrase to me, but that doesn’t mean he still doesn’t have a romanticized view of the stars and bars and how it relates to our family tree.
I’ve always been puzzled by the South’s love affair of the Confederate flag. With the Charleston shooting bringing the flag to the forefront, even more so. No where in history will you find a group of people who worship the symbol of the losing side of a war as feverishly as those who do the Confederate flag. Oh sure, some argue that the flag represents an honor to those who lost their lives in the war, but you don’t see Germans flying the Nazi flag to honor those who died in WW2. We see the Nazi flag and remember all the horrific things about that war. The image of the Nazi flag evokes a strong, negative reaction to most everyone who see it. The Confederate flag has that same reaction to a lot of people, and yet there are others who think it’s something to be proud of.
Those who cherish their flag can defend it and fly it all they want, but it doesn’t escape the fact that the flag is not just a symbol of the white-washed version of Southern history, it is a symbol of hate, of oppression, and of treason. It is ironic that the flag-lovers would decry “Oppression” when their flag is threatened, when their stance in Civil War was oppression dressed up in the fancy wording of state rights. Yes, the Civil War was fought over whether the apostrophe comes before or after the “s” in States, as Southern apologists would have you believe that the federal government had no authority over individual state rights. But, they do tend to gloss over the fact that one of the sticking points of those state rights was the right to slavery.
Like the flags of Apartheid and the Nazis, the Confederate flag belongs in a museum. To be studied as history, a lesson not to be forgotten lest the past repeats itself. The South is too in love with its heritage of hate and oppression. To this day, they are still fighting the Civil War, and they still think they are going to win.
I can’t help but feel the fight over the flag is just a smokescreen when you think about the Charleston tragedy. Racism is still rampant in the South. Open and unashamed. You hear about it even to this day: segregated proms, for example. The Confederate flag is a diversion, and I am sure the NRA is thanking whatever gods they pray to that the focus isn’t even on gun control right now. The flag is an easy target, with no powerhouse lobby that owns Congress and has an unlimited battle chest of lawyers and money to defend it. I’m sure the flag will finally be taken town and put in a museum where it belongs, and people will feel a great satisfaction that they accomplished an historical victory. Until someone brings a gun somewhere and kills again. Then, we will be looking anywhere for another scapegoat. History repeating itself all over again. And we’ll be wondering we can do to prevent it from happening again, while the answer is as plain as the nose on our face.
We know what we have to do. We’re just too ignorant and too chicken shit to do the right thing. Our government is bought and paid for. The only color our government cares about is green. I’m tired of it, and frustrated that this is the society that my daughter will grow up in.
While I am very proud that my family had a part in establishing this country, I am embarrassed by what it has become. Heritage, not hate. Yeah, that sentiment can kiss my ass.
As of tomorrow, I will have been a Mom for three whole weeks.
Three weeks ago, Log and I took our friend, Kant out to dinner for her 40th birthday. She chose Fogo de Chao, which was great because we love that place. And so we ate, like the carnivores we are. Top of the food chain! By the end of dinner, I thought my water had broke, so we all went to the hospital so I could get checked out.
Turns out, my water had not broken. And those pains I started feeling? Just cramps. The docs checked me out, announced I was dilated to 3, then sent me home with instructions to drink lots of water, do a lot of walking (to alleviate the cramps), and call if something more interesting happens…like actual labor. We got home around 11:30pm. I was supremely disappointed. Log is convinced that I am not going to deliver before our scheduled induction for the following Thursday.
We went to bed, and around midnight, I started having stronger “cramps”. I got zero sleep that night because I kept having “cramps”. Sometimes, Log would wake up (when I was more noisy and whiny) and rub my back. By morning, my “cramps” were roughly 30 minutes apart.
So, I spent the morning laying in bed, occasionally making a trip to the bathroom, which was also uncomfortable. My “cramps” getting stronger, and closer together. I called one of my close friends, who is a doula, and she thought my “cramps” sounded more like contractions (which I thought the whole time). I called the OB triage desk and explained recent events, and the nurse told me to come in.
We arrive at the hospital at 3pm, and I am whisked away to the OB floor from the ER because the ER wants nothing to do with pregnant ladies. Back into triage, into the same bed I occupied the night before. Am exam reveals that I am now dilated to a 6, and I am in active labor. Would I like an epidural?
Does a bear shit in the woods??
Back in the day, when I was a newly minted pregnant lady, and reading about all the crap you can read about in terms of labor and birth, I thought I would just hold off on an epidural unless I absolutely had to have one. That was before I actually experienced the joy of back labor. Now, I’m not a candyass when it comes to pain. I’ve had numerous knee surgeries. For lack of a better phrase, I have a high pain threshold. That being said, back labor had me almost begging for death. The description is beyond words. When a contraction would hit, I could not form complete thoughts, much less complete sentences. Instead, I started thinking in colors, and my brain went to pristine white. Another thing is that you hear a lot of women say, “You forget the pain.” You know what? Those women can piss off. I will never forget how bad that hurt, for the rest of my days.
An hour or so into triage, and I am finally taken back onto the floor to my own room. It’s a newly renovated delivery room. ACME hospital redid all the delivery rooms, and they are very posh. Flat screen television (which I never turned on). Big, spacious shower (which I never used). Fancy crown molding and aesthetically pleasing decor (which I never admired). Like birthing your baby at the Marriott. More on this later.
So, I am as settled into my birthing room as much as I can be, and three anesthesiologists waltz in sometime later. And by sometime, I mean almost 2 hours later. I don’t know what the hell took them so long. Did they not hear me screaming from the hallway?? Did they not want to get the epidural in quickly so I would shut up?? Anyway, Larry, Darryl, and Darrel arrive and educate me all about the epidural. Larry is apparently the more experienced of the three, and he assigns the lesser experienced Darryl to actually put in the epidural. Darrel apparently is just observing. The nurse decides to check my cervix before they start, and I am now dilated to an 8. Contractions are roughly 4 minutes apart.
I am made to sit on the side of the bed for the epidural, and am told to relax. Apparently, Larry has never experienced contractions before, because if he did, he would know better than to tell a laboring woman to “relax”. Larry will never know how close he came to dying that day. Meanwhile, I am trying to power through as Darryl fumbles his way around my spinal column. Towards then end, I get a contraction that comes with the overwhelming need to push. Just as Darryl finishes, I announce this new development to the nurse, who has me lay on my back again for another cervical check. Now dilated to 10. For those not familiar with cervical dilation…the chart doesn’t go to 11. In layman’s terms, my normally mini-donut-sized cervix is stretched to the size of a bagel.
But Lil G has not dropped into position for her birthday, and I am propped up into what I call the Pretty Princess Chair position. Meanwhile, I’m pushing my epidural button like it’s Raid Night in World of Warcraft. In minutes, I can no longer feel anything below the waist. Then, I realize that I’m hungry, and I am given food. All the sugar free strawberry jello I could possibly want! I’d been jonesing for an orange popsicle, but they apparently ran out. Log also takes this time to relax. My Mom stops by.
About 7:35pm, my OB doctor shows up to deliver my daughter. My cervix is open for business, but the Pretty Princess Chair position did not encourage Lil G to move down the line. It is announced that I am going to do some “practice pushing” to 1) Practice pushing and 2) Maybe help Lil G drop some. I am put on my back, feet in stirrups, and I push. Lil G drops two stations. Practice pushing is officially over.
My OB assumes her place front and center. Log is to my right. Mom is sitting off to the side in the cheerleading section. Word gets out, and every Tom, Dick, and Harry show up in my room. I had said no students so this wouldn’t happen, but instead I get everyone else who is not a student. At this point, half of Kansas City now knows if the carpet matches the drapes because they are all in the birthing room.
And so the real pushing starts. In 7 contractions, and however many pushes I can get within those 7 contractions, Lil G makes her big debut. A faint little cry, and she is whisked away to the waiting gaggle of nurses in the corner. I would have liked immediate baby-on-chest placement, but that didn’t happen. I tell Log to follow the baby and not let her out of his sight. Meanwhile, I am directed for the equally exciting placenta delivery. Oooohhh.
Finally, I get to hold my baby. My tiny, wiggly, baby. The thing that has made me miserable and bloated for the last month of my pregnancy, made manifest. I stare at her in stunned silence. This beautiful creature, that is part me, part my husband, is now here. My Mommy-Baby time is brief, because they take Lil G away to do some more newborn stuff.
Remember that part about birthing in a Marriott. Well, about that…
I don’t know how other hospitals do it. Some hospitals, where their labor and delivery is their cash cow, has really pulled out all the stops. Whirlpool tubs. Family areas in the birthing room. Giving birth at those places is like going to a spa, but in the end you get maybe an episiotomy and an infant to take home. I have heard that some do it the same way as ACME Hospital…which is not a spa experience. I birthed in Posh Room, and the minute I could walk (albeit with assistance), I was plopped in a wheelchair and wheeled to the other end of the unit, which sadly had not been updated, to a basic hospital room. If you were lucky, you got a rocking chair in your room. Talk about Bait and Switch! They had a fold-out for the Dad to sleep in, but it was akin to sleeping on a concrete block, so I sent Log home to sleep in a comfy bed.
Two days later, I was discharged from ACME Hospital, but not before watching their education videos for new parents that were filmed in the 80’s and targeting parents with an IQ of bread. One video was about SIDS, which is what any parent wants to watch. A video of approximately 10 minutes. The first 8 minutes featuring bad violin music and families talking about their SIDS experience, the last minute and a half from the “expert”, telling me to always put the baby on her back. One of the other video was something called Purple Cry. The general idea, spaced in a 15 minute video, is this: Babies cry, don’t shake them. Very informative, assholes!
All the articles and classes and unsolicited advice could not prepare me for everything I have felt since that day. There’s a lot of information out there for new parents, the learning curve cannot be imagined. Even the experts can agree on the same thing whether it’s breastfeeding, or which diapers to use. Log and I have just decided to do what is right for us and for Lil G.
Two weeks today, I gave birth to my daughter. Two weeks later, I still struggle with wrapping my brain around that. You see, when I was in my early 20’s, I used to have two lists. “Reasons Not to Get Married” and “Reasons Not to Have Children”. Both a direct contradiction of what being a Good Mormon Woman demands. Oh sure, the higher-ups in church would tell you that’s not the case, but the message “There’s no greater calling than that of mother and wife…” tends to impress certain expectations in your head.
But I digress.
I really did have two lists. Not born of hating the institute of either, but rather seeing the worst of both, and wanting to avoid history repeating itself.
As life went on, and I saw that not all moms and not all marriages worked the same way, I stopped adding to those lists. As I got older, all the reasons went away. Instead, one reason remained, the same one, for both lists: Because you are alone.
And then Log came along, and now I have both. A good husband, a solid father. He’s engaged. Interactive. He soaks up being a Dad like a dry sponge dropped into a bucket of water. I really could not have designed a more perfect partner in my most vivid of imaginations.
So, now I am a Mom, and it’s stunning. I can’t stop staring at her. Kissing her. Feeling her soft, baby skin against my cheek. The way she sounds. The way she smells. The way she curls herself against my chest when I feed her. Looking into those baby blue eyes and wondering what color they are going to change into. (I’m hoping her Dad’s.)
With all this wonderment has come fear. Fear that I may get something wrong, make a mistake. I felt a similar fear when I finished nursing school and started working on my own. How will I know what to do and when to do it? Imagine that magnified. I want desperately to be a good Mom to her. I don’t ever want her feeling the things I felt when I was growing up. I don’t ever want her knowing what certain experiences are like, for they are things no child should ever have to experience. I want to show her all the good things, and protect her from the bad. All the while, I want her to grow up to be a good person. Kind. Compassionate. Smart. I want her to be close to her father, to experience what that rich relationship is supposed to be like, and I want to observe it.
My relationship with my husband has even changed since Lil G was born. It feels even more organic. Like he is a natural extension of myself. I can’t say that I love him more than I love my daughter, for the love is like comparing apples and oranges. It’s different, yet vast and cannot be measured. My love for my husband is the foundation on which our house is built, and when Lil G has grown and moved on, that foundation will still be there.
On a lighter note, we are quickly learning about what we need and what we don’t need. Going into a baby store to register was overwhelming in that there is so much crap, how do you know what you will need to raise a baby? After baby comes, you figure it out. Sometimes, you don’t know you need something until you actually need it. Babies are simple, they don’t need a lot of fancy gadgets. Just a boob, clean diapers, some onesies, and a warm place to sleep.
In other news, after two weeks, I am back down to my pre-pregnancy weight. So, I gained 37lbs with Lil G. I’m convinced most of that was fluid. I can wear my regular clothes, shoes, and my wedding ring. Other than two tears, I think I came out of this pretty good. Even the gestational diabetes went away.
I am filled with all kinds of feelings. Love. Peace. Fear. Anxiety. Which is, apparently, normal. I feel as if the big picture has now come into sharp focus. I look at my husband. My daughter. My surroundings. And I have come to realize that I now have the life I have always wanted, for as long as I can remember.
Life is pretty good.
I’m at the 36 week mark, and already I am crying, “Uncle!” Too bad the doctors don’t agree with me, so I am going to half to stick it out until G-Day. Log has even encouraged me to go the distance, which is funny because I am not in charge of this growing a human thing anymore. Nope, the show is now entirely dictated by the human larvae that is happily taking up residence where my other internal organs were quite comfortable. My belly looks like a swallowed a watermelon whole, but the sonogram today only reveals that she is around 5.5 lbs. Some days, I can’t even dress myself. I trust that Log puts on matching socks (which he does), but most days, I don’t even care if they do match.
Last night, I had to go into the hospital to get checked out because my blood pressure was elevated. My coworkers have been pretty diligent about monitoring it at work. So, assless gown, fetal monitor, and one straight cath later, the docs decide my coworkers don’t know how to take a blood pressure, which has typical of doctors. Get a reading you don’t like? Blame the machine operator. Whatever. Anyone can have a low blood pressure reading while laying on their side. My “issues” were not enough to make Little G come early, nor was it enough for them to decide I should cut out from work early. So, business as usual starting tomorrow when the alarm clock goes off at 6am.
Weekly ultrasounds continue. Log usually can’t go due to work, which is fine. He made it to one last week, though. Instead of the much more interesting one where they take all of the baby’s measurements, including weight, Log gets to be present for the mandatory butt-swabbing (mine) to see if I am carrying some sort of Group B strep (I’m not).
On a happier note, Log has painted the nursery in lovely pink and gray. We’re redoing the flooring before we add the decorative touches, not to mention furniture, to the room. Walking by the room, I pause and look inside. It still seems surreal to me that in less than a month, I’m going to be someone’s mom. I’m told by newly minted parents that this shock will amplify once we get her home, and last for about a month or so until we decide we have somewhat of handle on this parenting thing.
We’re pretty excited. And scared shitless at the same time.
Here I am, at the 33 week mark. In what people refer to as the “home stretch”. Second trimester passed ok. I didn’t feel “the best ever”, but I didn’t feel lousy. I guess it was as close to normal as I had felt since those two little lines showed up on the pregnancy test. However, the third trimester has been a different story entirely.
I did the glucose challenge, right around week 25 or so, and just barely failed with one number being over the mark. But with glucose challenges, there is no barely passing. The parameters are there, it’s yes or no only. So, I was diagnosed with gestational diabetes.
Now, I used to work with diabetics on a regular basis. For at least 10 years inpatient. You could say that I knew a lot about juvenile and type 2 diabetes. Gestational, however, is a completely different animal, and my knowledge certainly never covered this ground. I was admitted inpatient for a couple of days for insulin management. I was pissed. I knew how to given injections, I certainly could give them to myself. The hospitalization derailed a plan for Log and I go visit family for the weekend. So, with the insulin, the hospitalization, the missed trip, and the hormones…I was devastated.
For three days, I sat in a hospital room, eating crappy hospital food while pumping myself with what I thought was too much insulin. There, I found out why they admit all the baby beedus moms for insulin management. The high risk program I am in demands their patients to have chronically low blood sugar. So, I would sit in the bed, diaphoretic, shaky, hypoglycemic, and everyone would be happy about it. My internal nurse brain screamed. Everything defied logic of 10+ years of diabetes management. Numerous conversations with a coordinator did help somewhat as they explained the physiology behind it. My age, my history of PCOS were the main contributing factors, and no amount of good eating would have prevented it. It will go away once the placenta (the acting cock-blocker of my pancreas) leaves my body. I’ve only got a short time left, so I can deal with the shots and finger sticks. It still pisses me off though, but it helps knowing that a lot of women go through it.
I’ve been insanely tired. Almost narcoleptic. I also have to pee a lot, day and night, which might explain partly of why I am so tired. Oh, and heaven help me if I have to sneeze.
And my hands? I haven’t been able to feel them for about a month now. The extra volume of fluid I am carrying around is compressing nerves, which causes numbness in my hands. I tried to put in an IV the other day, and failed miserably. So, I have had to hang up my tourniquet until after the baby comes.
Overall, I feel like my body is less mine, and more just a vessel for the tiny human to marinate in until she is ready to come out. I admit, I am excited to meet her. I get weekly ultrasounds now, so I get to see her each week. Last week, she yawned a lot. She even smiled once. So yeah, she can use my body for as long as she needs it, which shouldn’t be too much longer.
When I was in middle school, we had the opportunity to join band, which was a big deal and almost everyone signed up. Kids chose which instruments they wanted to play, their parents would usually rent or buy the instrument outright. Those were the kids who picked flutes, clarinets, trumpets, and trombones. You occasionally had some baritones, and the drummers.
For those kids who couldn’t afford the rent or buy option, the school had some “loaner instruments”. Usually, they were the large brass types, dented and dull, which could still play a tune in the right hands. Tubas and french horns. You could take them home for practice, but at the end of the day, they belonged to the school.
My grandfather, a huge aficionado of classical music, convinced me that the french horn was a beautiful instrument, and could not go wrong in picking it. So, I did, meanwhile secretly envying my classmates with their dainty little instruments. I was given a “school horn”, which looked like someone drove over it with their car. Initially, I would take it home every day, and practice, until my parents would yell at me for being too loud. Coupled with the fact that the horn, in it’s case, was too damn heavy for any 6th grader to lug around, I stopped bringing it home.
My grandfather was right in that the french horn is a beautiful instrument. My ear can discern the french horn in an orchestra; a lovely, regal sound.
However, with new french horn players, the part is limited to playing the PAH-PAH to the newb tuba’s OOM!
Our spring concert rolled around, and my parents attended to see their daughter in her first big band concert. After, my dad remarked on how it didn’t seem like I got to play much. Did I like playing the french horn? Not really. Would I like to play something different? Yes!
After talking with my band instructor, he said I could switch instruments and play something else the following school year. The caveat being that I needed to practice during the summer to catch up to the other students.
Now, which instrument to pick. I flirted with the idea of playing the flute, only because my aunt had an old one I could have.
“What about drums?” My father had asked. A guy he did work for had an old kit that his son used to play on, but had lost interest. Mom wasn’t thrilled with the idea of trading a french horn for an even louder 5-piece drum set, but relented. So, Dad shelled out $100 and I got an old, silver drum set in my room. The heads were worn, and needed replacing, but it would be a good starter set. I didn’t have drum sticks, so Dad fashioned some sticks for me, and all summer I spent pouring over books of rudiments, learning sticking and music. I made sure to play the drum set only when my parents were working.
The following school year, I was excited to participate in band. The school had their own drums, so I didn’t have to worry about buying or renting a snare. I just used theirs. The same went with the sticks until I was able to order a pair of my own from my band teacher. Beautiful honey-colored drum sticks! I loved playing the drums, although there was a huge downside to being in the percussionist pit. My school bully also switched to drums. What was my joy, became my own personal hell as she picked on me for the hour we were in class (not to mention before and after), to the snickers of those close by, and the apparent oblivion of our band teacher.
As far as our band teacher (Mr. T) went, I think he was fairly ambivalent about me. He definitely had his favorites, but I was not one of them (and I was completely fine with that). However, he always was willing to stay after school and help me with a challenging rudiment or piece of music. He was always frank, tough, and demanded nothing short of the best of our abilities. He made me mad more times than I could count, but I always came out of it a better than when I started. From him, I learned that I need to keep doing something until I get it right. Never give up.
When my parents divorced, Dad uprooted us and moved to middle-of-nowhere Nebraska. The band wasn’t as great, and the percussion pit was heavily sexist. Boys get to play the drums, and if you had a vagina, why don’t you go over there and play the cymbals or the xylophone? Assholes.
Our first chair drummer managed to break him arm during a wrestling tournament, right before our Christmas concert. Our teacher, one-by-one, called all the boys in the pit to step up to the kit and play to music we had be rehearsing for the concert. Turns out, the boys in the group didn’t know much about playing a full trap. After a few awkward minutes, I stood up, grabbed my drumsticks, and took a seat at the stool. Some of my classmates snickered and made snide remarks, my teacher sneered. “You know how to play??” he asked. I nodded. He wanted me to demonstrate my abilities, I told him to just have the band start playing the damn song. So, he shrugged and raised his baton.
At the end of the song, everyone in the class turned around and stared. The concert came, and I played, just as I always done. My parents had long stopped attending my concerts, so I didn’t think too much about it until my Dad approached me the following week.
“Some guy at the gas station asked if you were my daughter.”
“He said he saw you play the drums last week at the school concert. He said he’d never seen anything like it. I guess you can play pretty good?”
“I guess so.”
He later was approached by three other strangers, all asking about “that little blond girl who plays the drums”. He never said it, but I’d like to think that made him proud.
A lot of band nerds out there get shit on for being band nerds. Anything with the arts is dismissed as being frivolous and not possibly amounting to anything but a hobby. The thing with being in a band, is that music doesn’t care what you wear, what you look like, who or what your parents do, or where you live. Music transcends anything material, and can take you to a place where you forget about your problems, your alcoholic father, your absent mother, or that the electricity was turned off in your house. Making music, being in a band or even solo, is like creating something that is bigger than yourself. If it was band-related, I soaked it up. Marching band, Symphonic Band, Pep Band, Conference Band. My hands would have blisters and callused from all the playing I did. I knew I always wanted this in my life, and made the decision during my sophomore year of high school, that I, too, wanted to be a band teacher. But, life happens and you end up taking a sharp right turn.
After the whole “little blond girl who can play drums” incident. My classmates accepted me better. My music teacher respected me. He even had me instructing the newly minted percussionists in the junior high in basic rudiments. Four girls signed up to for percussion that semester, and a few of my “students” went on to play for large university drum corps.
My husband surprised me with a drum set for my birthday. A beautiful kit, which I have added to and play once in a while. I’m excited to have it in my life, even more so about the idea of teaching my daughter how to play. It’s a shame that more emphasis isn’t put on the arts as they used to be. American education is geared towards tests and test scores, and not about learning and personal enrichment.
Band nerds are still cool to me. Anyone who doesn’t think so can suck it.