Music Class

This Spring, Owen and I attended Kindermusik on Friday mornings. The class and location that best suited our schedule was at this neat community center downtown on the Battery. There is a great playground in back, and after class we would walk outside and be here:
Owen enjoyed the 12-week class for the most part. He liked using the various instruments and singing and clapping and stomping and pretending to be a train. The teacher would place a big basket of bells / scarves / rhythm sticks / clackers in the middle of the class, each child would go pick out one or two, we would do a song or activity, and then the teacher would come around to collect the item (Owen was better at taking things than at giving them back, but he made progress in this area). But sometimes he'd had enough, which he would indicate by going to the door and trying to leave. When that didn't work, he would try to take the fire extinguisher off the wall (bizarrely placed at toddler-height right by the door).

Because of its location, I suppose, this particular Kindermusik class was a rather fancy scene. ALL of the children wore handmade, embroidered clothing. Dresses for the girls:
And jon jons for the boys (some of you may not have known what a jon jon is - now you do):

I thought, well, maybe everyone just got their kid dressed up on the first day. But no. It was like that every class. And some of the moms were really nice, but some others would only talk to the few that they knew and would cast us nervous sidelong glances that seemed to say, "Who let the riff-raff in?"

Owen's typical outfit was what he might be wearing on any other summer day: a short-sleeve button down or collared shirt and a pair of shorts. (Even though he was the youngest kid in the class, he always looked like the oldest.) But on the last day of our class, I couldn't help myself. Owen went dressed in this:
(That's one of his favorite t-shirts, mind you. A gift brought back by his Uncle Alex from London.)

It was a statement, I guess. It said, "We will NOT be fancy if we don't want to be, ESPECIALLY at 10 o'clock in the morning when we're sitting on the floor talking about choo-choo trains." It was also factual, pointing out how Owen is the primary breadwinner in our family.

And it was a test. A final exam, if you will. If you gave us a dirty look or appeared frightened (Owen IS pretty scary looking), you failed. If you laughed, said something funny, or seemed not to notice, you passed. (It's good to know who your friends are.)

Owen's sweet teacher (pictured below) passed, for sure:
Owen, I will never dress you in a jon jon, baby. I promise.