Every time the conductor mentions that the kids have been “working really hard,” drink.
Every time a parent blocks your view in order to take a photo, drink.
Every time your mind drifts back to your own childhood, when your Aunt Clara with the abnormally large hands and the frighteningly uneven teeth would come over once a week to give you piano lessons, and you would pretend to enjoy them so your mother wouldn’t be disappointed, and you wonder if you’re doing the same thing to your own daughter, drink.
Every time the orchestra goes two minutes without sounding like some sort of dying beast, drink.
Every time you accidentally say your daughter plays the violin, drink. Every time your wife has to explain to you what a viola is, drink twice.
Every time you ask Jimmy Rockenstein’s mother how she’s doing, and she launches into this depressing monologue about maybe losing her job (and probably losing her marriage), and how she went to church for the first time in a while last Sunday and maybe a little faith is all it takes, and you just nod and pretend to be immersed in the off-key rendition of Jingle Bells being presented on stage, drink.
Every time Jimmy Rockenstein’s mother leans over to tell you how she thinks her son is really improving on the cello, drink twice.
Every time a song ends, clap.
Every time someone claps before the song is really over, drink.
Every time your daughter’s math teacher catches you drinking and scowls, shaking her head, smile at her and think to yourself that this sort of judgment is exactly why you took your daughter out of Catholic school.
Every time you feel an urge to punch that guy a few rows back who just won’t stop coughing, drink.
Every time you check your phone for the score of the basketball game, drink.
Every time your wife catches you checking your phone and shoots you a dirty look, or whispers angrily that you need to turn that damn thing off, drink. If it’s gonna turn into one of those conversations once your daughter goes to sleep, drink twice.
Every time your daughter waves to you from the stage, hide the flask.
Every time she hits a wrong note, drink.
Every time your wife mentions how she might need private lessons soon, drink. Every time your wife mentions how much private lessons cost, drink twice.
Every time you visualize your mother’s face at your piano recital decades ago, when you were so nervous your hands wouldn’t stop shaking and you ended up murdering Bach’s Prelude in C Major, and she tried so hard to mask her disappointment and you swore you’d never touch ivory again, drink.
Every time your daughter asks how she did, tell her it was beautiful.
Ask your wife to drive home.