I Knew I Should Have Bribed the Music Teacher

Back in the days of yore, when I first discovered I was about to become a parent, I was filled with doubts and worry. I worried I wouldn't be a good momma, I worried my child would grow up and hate me, and I worried my ass would grow to rival the size of small country.

A country where they subsist on coffee products and baked goods. Especially honey glazed donuts.

Clearly, I was young and hormonal. After all, I am a good mom (take that you adoption asshats), my children thus far think I hung the moon and my ass may want it's own zip code to spread where ever it chooses, but I'm determined to keep it's sprawl limited to the confines of jeans I already own.

(Or at least until I bend over and split the seams, thereby declaring an emergency shopping day for pants one size bigger...)

Over the years I have tried to be a good mother to my spawn. All right, so some days I have tried harder than others. How many points do I lose since I have yet to throw them a birthday party? I keep them fed. Not well, but they aren't starving. I provide them with ample resources to fuel their minds. Ok, so I supply them with Google and drive them to the public library twice a week. I make sure they exercise their bodies to grow healthy and strong. So what if I make a little money on the side renting them out to local farmers so they can spend the day picking rocks from the fields. They're exercising.

My point is, I have done my best to be a good parent to them. Including, but not limited to, playing chauffeur and driving their asses all over hell's half acre to deliver them to extra curricular activities which cost a small fortune; entertaining a seemingly endless stream of neighbourhood children who wander in at all hours of the day and subjecting myself to one mindless class project after another, all in the name of being a good mommy.

So what does my daughter do to repay me for my efforts? She joins band. And brings home this:

Obviously, I pissed off the music teacher somehow.

The french horn. Also known as a tool of the devil. This is what I SHOULD have worried about back when I was gestating my children. How the hell I would survive band practice.

Now, between the dog's barking, the birds chattering, the hamster's constant churning of their wheel, the repetitive beat of Ms. Duff or Fergie that is continuously played by one child or the other, I have to listen to an eleven year old try and learn how to play the french horn.

Which sounds suspiciously similar to an elephant in heat trying to lure a willing partner while fighting off a trio of monkeys who are trying to remove his tusks with a dull butter knife to sell the ivory to a band of outlaw poachers.

Good times at my house. Good times.

And it will only get better. Frac informed me that he intends on trying out for either the tuba or the drums next year. Then I will have two of my very own band members to serenade me with their mating calls rehearsing.

For six more years. Until they graduate. (Or go batshit crazy and steal their instruments and ransom them back to the school...)

I'm trying to find an upside to this hell. Maybe if I buy them some sequined tops and leather bottoms, I could market them as the next Donnie and Marie.

Because everyone loves the french horn and the tuba, right?