There’s a lot of nothing that usually happens on a Sunday at eight in the morning. Maybe head off to the house of worship of your choice. Maybe breakfast in bed. Maybe sleep in. Maybe recover from a hangover. You know, standard Sunday morning stuff.
But not here at my house. Oh no no no no, my house at 8am, Sunday morning, is trombone practice time.
For those of you unfamiliar with the trombone, there are a few bits of information to know:
- It was developed in the 15th century.
- It’s a brass wind instrument.
- The English equivalent was called the “sackbut”.
According to Wikipedia, that is.
Being woken up by a nine-year-old practicing the trombone is like being woken up by a drunken elephant: you’re not sure what’s going on, but it’s loud, scary, and out of tune. The kid’s as oblivious to the world around him as an octopus is to a parrot so why wouldn’t he decide to wake up the neighborhood.
It wouldn’t be so bad if he would practice the songs he is learning in school instead of just *TOOT*TOOT*TOOOOT* but he continually leaves his sheet music at school. Worse yet, he likes to amble about the house while practicing. He’ll stand at the top of the stairs like the pied piper without a following. Then he moans when we tell him to head back downstairs.
He plans on practicing again this evening to make up for lost time over the weekend.
I plan on pouring two fingers over ice.