I recently stayed up past midnight. On purpose. Why? Because I’m a good mom. Here’s the skinny.
My oldest daughter has been in marching band for four years as part of color guard. They’re the kiddos with the flags and rifles and sabers-not-swords who perform alongside the instrument people( not withstanding my tremendous karaoke skills, I’ve never been a “musically literate” person, so forgive me if I butcher the lingo). Her team (squad? group? Or do I just keep saying “band?”) has earned many accolades, including a particularly timely national championship in 2016 after one of the longest weeks of my life that included, but was not limited to, facilitating a son’s broken-nose surgery and witnessing Trump elected, both while solo-parenting. Ugh. Truly horrible.
But I digress. This weekend was my fake-gun tosser’s last competition ever, as she is not continuing with winter guard (yes, there’s a whole separate season for this! Five more months of body suits and broken appendages). And I have never actually been to any of her finals. She thinks I went to the aforementioned nationals from my six days of hell on Earth, but I lied to her pretty little face because I just couldn’t muscle the energy to hang with thousands of super-pumped parents in Lucas Oil. Bottom line, I had to attend this one to have any shot at Mother of the Century, even if it meant sacrificing precious sleep. There’d literally be no “next time.”
I arrived at 8:45 p.m., she went on at 10:30 p.m. and they were announced champions at 12:30 a.m. I saw it all, even if it was through bleary eyes. Occasionally, I am a good mom.
Congratulations, my darling! Peace out.
