The boy has music class twice a week, which is fine with him. I don’t know that he loves music, but it doesn’t involve memorizing multiplication facts or learning vocabulary words or reading long paragraphs, so he’s perfectly okay with music class.
Basically, he takes after his daddy, in the sense that his daddy was always on the lookout for the “Easy A” class. Think shop class. And welding. And PE.
The boy’s mama, on the complete opposite hand, was always on the lookout for classes that would enrich her life. Think expository writing. And calculus. And World and Regional Geography.
I’ve told Hubs repeatedly, “I never could have dated you in high school; you slacked off and partied a bit too much for me.”
And Hubs always responds by saying, “Well, I never would have dated you in high school, either; I didn’t date librarians.”
Clearly, we were a match made in Heaven, and God waited until after high school to bring us together, even though we both knew each other in high school. Eventually, though, when high school was over with and college was finished, too, the captain of the wrestling team kissed the librarian, and the rest is happily-ever-after history.
The boy’s music teacher also happens to be one of my good friends. Her name is Stephanie V., and she’s a nutcase. She’s also cute as a bug’s ear, musically gifted, in love with Jesus from her head to her toes, and has one of the most generous hearts I’ve seen in a long time. She can also sit and listen to a bunch of elementary-aged kiddos blowing into their recorders all day long. I don’t know anyone else on this entire big planet who can do that, especially with a smile on her face. I’d rip my own hair out by the handfuls if I had to endure hours of amateur recorder players.
After school today, I asked the boy, “How was music class?”
He replied, “Okay, I guess. Oh, and guess what, Mom? Mrs. V. got her voice back!”
I said, “Oh, I didn’t know she was missing her voice.”
The boy nodded and said, “She was. She’s had a bad case of lemon-gitis, so she lost her voice. And today, she taught us about jazz and blues, and she said that a lot of blues singers sound like they have lemon-gitis, too, because they spend a lot of time in the bars, and the smoke burns their lungs and throats up, so they get scratchy voices. Did you know that there’s a lot of smoke in the bars, Mom?”
“Um, no. I was always in the library in college, studying. Ask your Daddy about that one.”
And the lemon-gitis? Too stinking cute! I don’t ever want this kid of ours to grow up.