Tonight, we're going to Henry's first-grade music program.
Have any of you heard my beautiful child sing? Let's just say he inherited his parents' lack of vocal talent. He gives it his all. Off key. But all the while genuinely trying his best. When he's not tapping his neighbor on the shoulder or fiddling with his shoelaces or wiping his nose on his sleeve.
I'm actually looking forward to it. I remember last year's concert was more amusing for its accidentally comedic moments than for its stellar pitch. Kids totally not paying attention, having side conversations during the choruses, trying really hard not to beat each other with the wooden blocks they were using as noisemakers, picking noses, wriggling in itchy clothes.
That was kindergarten. I'm fully insisting that first grade's when we start seeing the Justin Biebers-in-training hit the scene. Too bad we cut H's hair.
In addition to the entertainment, we're also going this evening because Henry's planning to coerce us into buying him books at the school's book fair. I think Henry's school must get money or free books or some sort of graft based on how many books get sold because yesterday he came home with a pink sheet of lined paper titled This is my book fair wish list. Get out your wallets, suckas.
My wish? I wish they wouldn't DO THAT.
He had five or six books written down, complete with prices and an accompanying explanation for why it was imperative that he have each one. Come on kiddo. Convince me. Tell me how Star Wars The Clone Wars Secret Missions #2 The Curse of the Black Hole Pirates is going to get you into an Ivy-League school. Explain how you're going to contribute to society after reading Captain Underpants and the Invasion of the Incredibly Naughty Cafeteria Ladies from Outer Space
I can almost see it now. The negotiation. The fit about to be pitched. The concession. The sack of reading materials plunked into his hot little attention-seeking rock star hands.
With or without the Justin Bieber hair, he'll deserve an ovation for the performance.