HALLELUJAH! A Trombone For Ky Ky!

A couple of weeks ago my mother called from her cell phone. They were at an antique auction with some friends they were visiting in Vermont. There was a "real trombone" at the auction, they thought they could bid and get it for $40. They wanted to know if they should go for it. I practically screamed into the phone: "OH MY GOD! YES! BUY IT!!!!!!!!!!" They did. My parents then spent approximately 20 hours (yes, TWENTY hours!) polishing the thing. Surely it had been stuck in the corner of someones attic for a very long, long time. My parents said it was very grubby. We said, "don't worry about it! he won't care if it is shiny!" But MorMor and MorFar insisted. Only the best and brightest trombone for their boy. By the time MorMor and MorFar carefully packaged this instrument and shipped it off to Pennsylvania, the thing was as beautiful and shiny as you could possibly imagine. Every single time a box has arrived through the mail at our house for the past six months Kyle has said, excitedly, hopefully, optimistically: "Maybe it is a trombone!" For six long months he's endured disappointment---- "no, it is some books for Mama's work"; "no, it is a computer part for Papi's office"; "no, it is a new water filter"; "no, it is new shoes"; "no, it is _________" [fill in the blank, never a trombone]. The poor child. But he's handled it exceptionally well, all things considered. Never has he expressed anger or upset or frustration. Only just genuine hope that "Maybe the next time it will be a trombone." For lack of anything better to say, we've said, "Yes, maybe." (not wanting to burst his bubble, but at the same time not very optimistic ourselves at the prospects of him receiving -- from us, or anyone else -- a "real trombone"... Braydon had done the research on eBay... these instruments, even old and used and beat up, were pricing out in the thousands.) Fast forward to Saturday evening. Unbenounced to the boys, a box had arrived in the mail earlier that day. After dinner, the box was brought out. As always: "Maybe it is a trombone!" Kyle said. "Maybe!" we said. My heart was racing. We were very anxious about how he'd react. The boys got their scissors and we opened up the box. The look on Kyle's face was priceless. Indescribable. I put my hand over his little chest. His heart was beating so hard and so fast it was practically jumping out of his chest. Yes, it was a real trombone. The 45 minutes that followed were greater than any Christmas morning or Birthday party that Braydon and I have ever witnessed, anywhere, ever, in our lives. This child was beyond cloud 9. "I really love trombones" he kept repeating over and over and over and over. We had wondered if he'd even be strong enough to hold the thing. Yes, he could hold it. We had wondered, even if he could hold it, could he make any sound come out of it. Yes, yes, yes, he could. At the first attempt he could play it, loudly. He could slide the slide in and out and play various 'notes' (not pretty sounds, mind you, but sounds, loud sounds). And he could play it and march with it at the same time. It was hard for him to fall asleep Saturday night, just knowing that trombone was in the house. Sunday morning he woke up at 6:45 am and literally ran to our bed-- "Papi, please I play my real trombone Papi pllllease?" He was in the basement with his Papi playing the trombone at 6:46 am on Sunday. He had a hard time parting with it at any point yesterday. This morning, same thing-- ran to our bed (this time 6:40am), "Please can I play the trombone? Right now? Please?" We told him he had to wait until Owen woke up. They were both downstairs, Kyle playing trombone, Owen playing sand-slide cymbals, at 7:00 am sharp. We had a two-man marching band around and around our bed from about 7:02-7:30am. By 8:30 this morning, less than 48 hours after its arrival, with all four of us in the playroom, Kyle was playing a very short and basic trombone version of Mozart's Eine Kline Nachtmusic. No joke folks, no joke. You sorta have to see it to believe it. These photos don't nearly do it justice.