I’ve already talked about the size of the instrument, but I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the mind of the musician. Because—and I’m trying to put this as delicately as possible—his focus can tend to be slightly more “abstract” than “practical.” And the cruel irony about the life of a musician is that his days are filled with tedious details that involve him to be aware of (*gasp*) time, space AND direction, when he really only sees the world in terms of pitch, volume, tempo and pizza.

A musician’s life is (pardon the pun) composed of endless lessons, rehearsals, concerts, gigs, competitions and recitals, all of which require an individual to be present at a certain time and place, with the correct music and accessories, and wearing the appropriate “uniform.” A tall order, even for a teen without the mind of the musician.

Which brings us to the mother of the musician.

Yes, I think I can say with confidence that behind every performing teen musician is a red-faced, panting mom who somehow got him to the right place at almost the right time. And she couldn’t be more proud.

Take, for instance, the Infamous Fall Middle School Orchestra Concert Incident of 2007.

It started innocently enough. As a seasoned mother of the musician, I knew enough to ask him SEVERAL DAYS IN ADVANCE about what he was supposed to wear. He assured me that it was “no problem.” He had an orchestra uniform shirt, and was going to wear his black pants with it.

So I relaxed, when I really should have realized that the entire transaction was disturbingly easy. Too easy.

The concert was to start at 7 p.m., so I informed my son that we would start loading the beast bass into the car at 6:20, and leave at 6:30, to which he readily agreed. At 6:21, when he wasn’t downstairs yet, I went to check on him. There he was, with a look of mild dismay on his face, with his orchestra uniform shirt hanging down to his knees, and NO PANTS ON.

“My pants are too small. I’m gonna have to wear a pair of Dad’s pants,” he admitted.

That would have been the end of the story, except for the fact that his dad was 16 INCHES TALLER and 90 POUNDS HEAVIER THAN HIM.

On to Plan B.

“How about trying on your pants again for me? Maybe they’re not that bad.”

They were that bad. (Note to self: Apparently boys in their teens are capable of growing several inches in every direction every couple of months, but—and this is the important part— this phenomenom only manifests itself when they try on dress clothes.)

Plan C:

“Surely there is another pair of black pants in your closet that fit you!” (Envision a sight that can best be described as a bomb going off in Old Navy.)

No black pants.

Plan D:

“Is it possible that your sister has a pair of black pants that fits you?”

Yes, I went there. (And no, I won’t go there again.)

So, we’re left with . . .

Plan E: The mother of the musician must make a new pair of black pants materialize in 25 minutes.

6:26: Family huddle. Four cell phones are set to ON. Mom careens out of driveway in car. Boy puts on darkest pair of blue jeans. Dad, sister, boy and bass are loaded into truck, which heads to the middle school.

6:33: Mom screeches into parking lot of Penney’s. Mom wonders why her surroundings are so blurry, and then realizes that she is actually running for the first time in 23 years. Mom grabs first pair of black dress pants in the correct size that she sees, and huffs and puffs her way to the checkout line.

6:41: Dad, sister and boy arrive at middle school. Dad runs in to the auditorium to save seats, sister lags outside for the hand-off, and boy skulks into the rehearsal room, with legs and bottom half of torso mercifully hidden by the bass.

6:42: Mom leaps into car, and squeals out of the mall parking lot, frantically tearing tags and stickers off the precious new pants with her teeth as she drives.

6:53: Mom calls sister on cell phone to advise her of her imminent arrival; they exchange locations and set up a plan for the pants exchange.

6:54: Back at the middle school, sister is spotted running towards a speeding vehicle in the parking lot. The window of the vehicle rolls down ominously, and a mysterious black bundle torpedoes into her waiting arms. Sister turns and stampedes into school, regretfully taking down a couple of eager grandmothers who had the misfortune of being in her way. The car shudders into a parking place, and the previously mentioned red-faced, panting mother of the musician slips inconspicuously into the auditorium, next to worried husband.

6:57: Covert mission accomplished, sister arrives in auditorium, also panting, and the family is reunited. They catch their breath, and stare in exhaustion at the empty stage, which has a glamorous black curtain all the way across the back of it.

7:01: With great pomp and ceremony, the orchestra members file across the stage in their black pants and white uniform shirts. All the members—except for the bass players. As the kids take their seats, the three bass players, unnoticed by the audience, emerge from behind the black curtain with their instruments, and stand in the back, completely obscured by the orchestra in front of them, except for the tops of their heads and the towering tips of their basses.

7:46: After a great performance, the orchestra files off the stage, as the bass players disappear behind the curtain again.

He could have worn a hula skirt and cowboy boots, and it wouldn’t have mattered.

But, in retrospect, what DID matter was the story, the tale of three family members going to bat for a fourth. Teamwork. Togetherness. The family unit. And yes—keeping a sense of humor about it.

Tonight, five months later, we are going to the Hopefully Not Infamous Spring Middle School Orchestra Concert. And this time, I had my musician try on those black pants. And yes, they’re already getting a little too short—but he’s just going to have to take one for the team and work it.

(But now that I’m looking, he’s going to need a new pair of shoes.)

Gotta run . . .

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