Aselin

Back in my childhood someone decided that I should play the piano. Many adolescents were subjected to the same parental dream with the same marginal success. What this means is we have an army of semi-grown ups out there who quit just after they became able to play Fur Elise and The Entertainer with bad inflection and timing.

I took a few years of lessons, most of which are a blur because of my dominant lazy gene which precludes me from working toward mastery of most things I attempt. One teacher still stands out in my brain: Mrs. Miles.

"Mrs. Miles" sounds benign enough, but Mr. Miles was long gone so all she did was sit in her home with her doberman, shellacking her perfect beehive hairdo and thinking of ways to torture me. Lisbeth, as my mother got to call her, was sweet and grandmotherly whenever a parent was around. Once that door shut behind a student's maternal protecter all gloves were off. Mrs. Miles, as the rest of us had to call her, was a Russian immigrant who had survived the German Nazi invasion. Needless to say she didn't take kindly to wimpy sixth graders who don't practice.

Out of sheer terror I became able to play a perfect Fur Elise, Entertainer and a few other pieces before I was released from her captivity. To this day I can't hear Chopin's Minute Waltz without having severe bladder control issues.

Now I'm the parent with musical dreams.

Interestingly enough, all three of my kids have done well on the piano. They have all gotten to the point where it is fun to hear them play, which is the real pay off for a parent. All we really want is for our kids to perform for the grandparents and show up the neighbor kids in something.

One of the elements of my children's school curriculum is strings study. #1 has become amazing on the viola and has played in a number of orchestras that didn't have the audience wincing in their seats as they endured the pain of Junior High strings version of My Sherona.

#2 and #3 study Suzuki violin at school...with about a hundred other fifth and sixth graders. It's one thing if the kid shows some interest in an instrument, it's a whole-nother thing when every kid at school has to learn Twinkle Variations on a temperamental instrument that even accomplished musicians work to keep in tune.

Last night as one of my unnamed children "practiced" a piece that eluded them I could feel my flesh peeling off of my face. Beginner violin is one of the worst sounds in the universe. No, I take that back, beginner violin IS the worst sound in the universe. A kid that has an impressive piano repitoire, sat screeching out the vestiges of some tune that I believe is a pterydactyl mating call.

Of course, we then had the awkward moment where the kid looks up with soulful eyes and says "Wasn't that great mom?"

This is a pivotal moment in parenting. Do I tell the truth and crush the spirit of my budding musician? or Do I pad my words encouraging their efforts toward mastery?

Surprisingly, I did what any wise parent would have done: After an awkward moment of silence where their pleading eyes searched for my approbation, and blood dripped out of my ear drums, I tilted my head, nodded with a warm smile and yelled for viola-playing Unnamed Child #1 to come help as I sought refuge under a blanket.