I'm A Band Mom. Turns Out We're Just As Intense As Sports Moms.
I thought I was more evolved than the baseball moms and soccer moms, but the universe has a way of humbling you.
It’s the fourth quarter of my son’s first basketball game, and we are down by eight points. Tensions are high amongst the parents wedged together on tiny bleachers. The opposing team makes another basket, and a mom screams, “Hey, ref! I guess we’re just not calling back court now?!” Did I mention these kids are second graders, and the referee in question looks like he just attended his middle school graduation?
I’m not new to the insanity, er, enthusiasm of kids’ sports culture.
My daughter decided she liked softball, and I’ve shown up for every game over the past five years. But truthfully, I don’t care what happens. Sure, it’s fun to see her hit a double or pitch a ball in the right zip code, but I’m OK regardless. She’s 10 years old — is winning really the goal right now? I hope she has fun. I love that she’s getting fresh air and learning teamwork, but her athletic performance is of little importance to me.
I quickly learned that’s not the case for many of the parents in the league. Some of these parents and coaches care… deeply. Is that an 8-year-old with a $300 bat? Are we seriously not going to let a third-grader have a turn playing first base because she’s not “good” enough? Come on. Aren’t we just excited if they’re paying attention without picking their noses?
And while I’m busy rooting for the kids on both teams and refusing to backseat coach from the bleachers, I’m basking in the glow of my smug superiority. I’m not a regular mom; I’m a cool, evolved mom. Look at me, not living vicariously through my child and her prepubescent baseball swing! Does this mean I’m better than everyone?
Nope. Seeing that my only decent bra is stained with children’s cherry-flavored Tylenol, that should have been a given. But some lessons we have to keep learning. Over and over again.
You see, my daughter just started middle school band, and that’s where my geeky heart lies. While my adolescent sports resume includes daisy-picking in the outfield and making a singular shot in my seventh-grade basketball season after the ref blew her whistle, band was my time to shine. I ruled as queen of the nerds — playing three instruments, showing up for jazz rehearsal at 6:45 a.m., and leading the marching band in my sweet tuxedo.
So, when my daughter opted to join the fifth-grade band, I was elated. We spent all summer listening to the different instruments and decided she would be a brass player. Maybe trumpet, maybe trombone. But she was going to be a band kid. She’s going to play all through high school and maybe get a scholarship, and she’s going to make ALL the memories, and we’re about to get some first-rate bonding as I regale her with all my stories!
On decision day, I anxiously wait for her to come home and spill the tea. Did she choose trumpet? Trombone? Gah! They’re both great!
“Soooooo, what’d we go with?!” I squeal.
“Oh, I decided to play the drums,” she says with a nonchalance that shatters my heart.
“But, but… what about the brass section? We had a plan!”
“Yeah,” she says, “but the drums seem easier, and I won’t have an instrument to take home, so I won’t really have to practice.”
Cue the devastation. She doesn’t want to practice?! Isn’t it a rite of passage to listen to her play Hot Cross Buns while sounding like a symphony of farts? And the drum kids? The worst. Everyone knows they slack off in the back and bring no honor to the beginning band game.
Things escalate quickly, and we both stomp away in meltdown mode. When we later head to the music store, another batch of fresh tears erupt as the cashier is forced to moderate our debate. “I can grab a trumpet if you want to give it a try,” he says tentatively.
“Thank you, that would be lovely,” I say while my daughter scowls in my direction.
“No problem. I can tell this means a lot to you, ma’am.”
Ah. There it is. This isn’t about her — it’s about me. My memories. My attempt to relive my geeky glory days through her. It doesn’t have to be a baseball diamond for my crazy to come out swinging. I’m no better or worse than any parent who’s emotionally invested in their kindergartener’s batting average; I’m just a mom who cares a lot and got overly attached to an outcome that wasn’t mine to choose.
“Whatever instrument you want to play is up to you,” I tell her. “I’ll back off.” And I mean it... or at least I try to mean it.
Spoiler alert: My success rate at staying neutral is not optimal. I’ve had a lot of feelings, a lot of ideas, and a lot of intense inquiries about just how much playing the trumpet has changed her life for the better. I do my best. I bite my tongue when she talks about things she might rather do instead of band.
So, here I am. A band mom who’s truly no better than the sports moms I once judged. I’ve eviscerated all my smugness because I am just like any parent coaching their kid in the parking lot after the game — my version just includes valve oil and spiffy performance vests.
A former band nerd and goat-showing champion, Emily Corak has now settled in the Pacific Northwest as a writer and photographer. A mom to two awesome kids and a slew of exchange students, she unironically enjoys an oatmeal raisin cookie more than chocolate chip. When she’s not searching for her lost keys, she’s dropping more money than she should on plane tickets and books.