1. First of all, to my son, The Boy: I am sorry. Sorry you inherited some freakish genetics. Because for the rest of your life, in every group performance, every class picture, and especially every Christmas concert, you will be in the back row. That’s just how it is. The short kids will get all the glory. No one said it was fair.
2. You know what breaks up a monotonous Christmas concert? Having the power-point presentation of carol lyrics screw up. To the point where you’re watching someone re-boot their laptop on a giant screen over the children’s heads. And you know that at least a couple other people have to be thinking what you’re thinking: “Oh lord, I hope there’s some porn on there. Because that would be hilarious!”
3. Know what else is fun? Sitting by someone’s cranky grandma. Who apparently left her filter at home. “Not one of those kids can carry a tune!” “That one’s quite the chubbo!” “Would it kill the teacher’s to get these kids to stand up straight? Bunch’a little hunchbacks, all of ’em.” As horrified as I was that she was saying this in her outside voice, I had the eeriest feeling that I was seeing into my own future. That made me smile.
4. I predicted, down to the millisecond, the moment my husband would lean over and say, “Are they singing in French? Or do they really just suck?”
5. A conversation I never thought I would hear: “What part do you have in the Christmas concert?” “Elvis.”
6. Laying aside the obvious barricades to my plan, my suggestion for future concerts: Beer Concession. The school makes money, I enjoy the concert a hell of a lot more, and my kid sees the grin on my face and thinks he must have rocked that version of “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus.” (I swear, I won’t get to the point where I’m yelling “More cowbell!” or anything. Just a little cheery. Promise.)
Till next year’s extravaganza, then.