I Can't Quite Remember Why I Hated it So Much...

I spent the morning babysitting my friend's 20 month old, who seriously has more personality than a lot of adults I know. Today was a red letter day for Kaiya: while we were out on a walk, we heard the Southwest HS marching band practicing a few streets over. And drums are Kaiya's favorite things EVER. She clapped and shrieked and played the imaginary drums on her lap while I pushed her stroller down the sidewalk alongside the clarinets. And I found myself unbelievably nostalgic for the long ago days of marching band, which is a prime example of how time distorts reality, because I hated marching band. Near the end of August every year, I developed a stomachache that didn't really go away until the end of October, when I was free from my own personal hell.

But somehow, a dozen years later, nothing seems more lovely and glorious and perfect than a high school marching band at the beginning of the school year. I remember swearing to my parents that I will NEVER, EVER make my kids join marching band. Now I'm already picturing my unborn children in their dorky uniforms and shiny instruments and cross my fingers that, unlike their mother, they will love being in marching band.