This week I attended my son’s last band concert in his current school. Next year he’s off to high school and there will be a whole new bunch of band concerts to attend, but this one was a little bittersweet for him because it’s been the same school and the same group of friends for the past 8 years.
If I tried to calculate how many concerts, band or Christmas or spring or whatever the flavor of the month was, that I’ve attended over the years so far, it would look something like this.
3 children with 29 combined years of school to date, and an average of 4 concerts per year = 116 concerts
I think I’m going to faint.
With each concert being an average of 1.5 hours, that would mean that I have spent 174 hours in uncomfortable folding chairs, in an overheated gymnasium, watching approximately 170 combined hours of other people’s children and approximately 4 hours of my own.
That’s a lot of cute kindergarten kids, shy grade 5 singers, and screeching clarinets. That’s a lot of parking lot craziness and arm flapping Grandmother’s (You can read more about a previous Christmas concert experience here.).
Since it was his last concert, I suggested to him that because his band group is the last to perform, that he should wait until the concert is over, and the clapping has begun, then he should grab his drum sticks and play those skins like he’s never played before. Go out with a big bang! Rock the house down! He wouldn’t do it.
Oh, well, there’s always concert #117.
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