His Last Performance

Lookin' sharp, my friend.

Last night Kohai gave his last orchestra performance of his eighth grade career. The school year is winding to a close, that means award ceremonies, end-of-year performances, yearbooks, class picnics and that anticipation of summer being right around the corner.

Anticipation.

The boys are excited, only two weeks more then freedom from the shackles of learning and then on to the long, slow, lazy vistas of sleeping in, video game marathons and eating us out of house and home. Like we'd let them play video games all day, believe me, there will be a chore list, much to their chagrin.

A face in the crowd.

Since the day each of them had moved from Kindergarten to the first grade and so on, I've never really looked forward to the end of school. Don't get me wrong, I've always enjoyed the summer and spending time with the boys. But with each grade level they achieve it seems like I lose a small piece of them and myself to time and growing up. My little boys are no longer, they've grown into young men.

Strings.

I hate the fact that when I look into the faces of my young men that I can barely discern the boy and even the baby they once were. Sometimes when I squint my eyes and let them go out of focus, when everything gets all soft and fuzzy, then right around the edges I can kind of make out the faces of my once little boys. All too soon it will be much harder to find those little boys in their ever maturing faces. As for those babies, I think they may be lost to me forever, only to be seen in my memory and photographs.

C-E-L-L-O

So here I am again facing another school year ending and my sons growing up. It's hard to believe that in two weeks Senpai will officially be a junior and Kohai a freshman. I guess there's really no use in fighting the inevitable, I'm opening my eyes and focusing on the faces of my young men. I'll have plenty of time later to remember the boys and babies they once were.

15 Minutes or Until Hot

Always follow heating instructions. Rules to live by.

"We're out of peanut butter," Kohai tells me for the third time Friday morning as I'm walking through the living room to the kitchen. They have this bad habit of informing me when we are out of something when I can do nothing about it at the time. Mom, we're out of shampoo (yelled from the shower); Mom, I'm out of clean underwear (just as I'm about to leave for work); Mom, we're out of toothpaste (as we are running late for church); Mom ... well, you get the picture. The conundrum that morning was what were the boys going to have for breakfast?

Kohai: What are we going to do for breakfast?

Me: You can still have your waffles, just put syrup on them instead of peanut butter. I also bought you guys those croissant breakfast sandwiches with ham and cheese. I got the croissant instead of the biscuit because I know you don't like the artificial butter taste.

Senpai:  You know I won't eat those.

Me: I know, it has ham.

Sometimes it's tricky buying food for the boys. Senpai has this aversion to lunchmeat, it's a texture thing that manifested itself when he was just a little boy. Kohai on the other hand is my adventurer, he'll try almost anything, but when he comes across a food he doesn't like, he very rarely revisits.

Kohai: Okay I'll make one of those then.

Me: Be sure to read the instructions carefully.

We've been working on getting the boys familiar with things in the kitchen. Letting them cook using the microwave and oven; teaching them to properly load, run and unload the dishwasher, etc. You know, basic skills for living. Heck, they've taken a class in middle school to learn this stuff. Back when I was a girl it was called Home Economics and like any good daughter of a feminist, I took art instead. Anyway, Kohai sets up his breakfast croissant and comes back to the living room.

Senpai: Did you wrap it in a paper towel before you put it in the microwave?

Kohai: No, it didn't say to.

Me: How long did you put it in for?

Kohai: 15 minutes.

Me: Really? 15 minutes?

Kohai: Yeah.

About seven minutes in there's this loud pop from the kitchen. It's the croissant breakfast sandwich, burned to a crisp and smoking. I grab an oven mitt and try to take it out of the microwave. That popping sound? It was the plate cracking in half. The only reason is stayed together was that the burnt cheese acted like a bonding agent. Honestly, I'm surprised it didn't burst into flames inside the microwave. Our house smelled of badly burnt toast.

Me: Did you read the directions carefully, Buddy?

Kohai: Yes, it said 15 minutes.

Me: Are you sure? Where's the box?

Kohai: In the trash.

Me: Buddy, it says to heat for 60 seconds. Where does it say 15 minutes?

Kohai: See it's right here, heat for 15 minutes in the .... oooh, in the oven.

Yeah, the oven ... kids, gotta love 'em.