Acacia begged to get a violin. Secretly I was hoping she'd get over it so I wouldn't have to live through the nails-on-a-chalkboard screeching of a rookie violinist... but she persisted, as she does, for at least a year. I am all for the girls learning instruments; it develops a different part of the brain which aids in other parts of life as they grow up - according to an article I read on facebook, anyway.
"How about the guitar? It's stringed too, but more campfire-friendly..."
"How about the piano? It's got strings!"
I tried. But when the new 4th graders had to choose between choir and orchestra, I lost. We are now a family with a violin.
And every day, I have to beg Acacia to practice it. When begging doesn't work, I get angry with myself for even stooping to it, then flip out and threaten all kinds of unenforceable acts like, "You will never get something you beg for again," and "If I don't hear that violin in the the next five seconds you'll be practicing it outside. In the snow." Or something equally stupid. (A more effective action would be to make her read The Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother by Amy Chua, which is something I've already mentioned to the girls and am seriously considering. That book would make her life seem sweet as honey.)
When the impossible threats don't work, I start removing things from her room - junky clutter I've wanted to get rid of anyway (might as well multi-task) - and then she flips out and thinks I'm the worst mother ever. "You are so mean!" That's the thanks I get after wasting an hour of my life trying to get my child to pick up the violin for a 30 minute practice. A violin she desperately had to have. That I don't even like. Secretly.
(For the record, I very much like violins, just not as a choice for a child's instrument, because unless they grow up to become maestros, it's the kind of thing they'll never pick up again. If you only know a bit of guitar, you can always pitch in when someone has one around a campfire; and if you walk past a piano, you can sit down and play a diddy. Violins don't do diddies. Neither do trumpets, which is what I took up as a kid. What a nightmare that must have been for the family!)
So who would have thought I'd be begging to hear those chalkboard nails? That the moan of a sick cat would be a welcome sound after the nightmare of getting her to create it?
And lest your mind's eye is picturing Cayenne sitting with a halo floating above her head, correct the image to add, let's see, her sister's brand new pen in her hands, completely dismantled, stretching out the inner spring; or with a pair of my earrings, squishing the hooks flat; or with Nick's stapler, painting it with liquid paper. So quietly naughty.
Argh!!!
No wonder I have so little hair left. The only thing that should be begged around here is the question of how the human race has lasted this long...
And as soon as that thought occurs to me, I hear a tiny voice behind me, "Mama?"
She climbs into my lap and nestles her warm head under my chin, curling up until her ear can feel my heartbeat.
"I love you, Mama."
And just like that, in her Pre-Preteen way, she reminds me that children need to push the limits to become adults who have boundaries; and in order to learn the right way to assert themselves, someone needs to be on the receiving end of their crude attempts at it; and for humans to learn how to love and forgive, they need to be shown it.
These two precious little people are learning how to be good bigger people, and the teaching job that it takes is mine, by choice. I really wanted it. And just like Acacia's violin playing, it will sometimes hit sour notes, but pushing through those screechy times will produce something far more beautiful, polished and confident.
(I, on the other hand, will emerge on the other side of all this a haggard, bald and wrinkled mess. Small price to pay though, right? Please pass the tequila.)
"How about the guitar? It's stringed too, but more campfire-friendly..."
"How about the piano? It's got strings!"
I tried. But when the new 4th graders had to choose between choir and orchestra, I lost. We are now a family with a violin.
And every day, I have to beg Acacia to practice it. When begging doesn't work, I get angry with myself for even stooping to it, then flip out and threaten all kinds of unenforceable acts like, "You will never get something you beg for again," and "If I don't hear that violin in the the next five seconds you'll be practicing it outside. In the snow." Or something equally stupid. (A more effective action would be to make her read The Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother by Amy Chua, which is something I've already mentioned to the girls and am seriously considering. That book would make her life seem sweet as honey.)
When the impossible threats don't work, I start removing things from her room - junky clutter I've wanted to get rid of anyway (might as well multi-task) - and then she flips out and thinks I'm the worst mother ever. "You are so mean!" That's the thanks I get after wasting an hour of my life trying to get my child to pick up the violin for a 30 minute practice. A violin she desperately had to have. That I don't even like. Secretly.
(For the record, I very much like violins, just not as a choice for a child's instrument, because unless they grow up to become maestros, it's the kind of thing they'll never pick up again. If you only know a bit of guitar, you can always pitch in when someone has one around a campfire; and if you walk past a piano, you can sit down and play a diddy. Violins don't do diddies. Neither do trumpets, which is what I took up as a kid. What a nightmare that must have been for the family!)
So who would have thought I'd be begging to hear those chalkboard nails? That the moan of a sick cat would be a welcome sound after the nightmare of getting her to create it?
And lest your mind's eye is picturing Cayenne sitting with a halo floating above her head, correct the image to add, let's see, her sister's brand new pen in her hands, completely dismantled, stretching out the inner spring; or with a pair of my earrings, squishing the hooks flat; or with Nick's stapler, painting it with liquid paper. So quietly naughty.
Argh!!!
No wonder I have so little hair left. The only thing that should be begged around here is the question of how the human race has lasted this long...
And as soon as that thought occurs to me, I hear a tiny voice behind me, "Mama?"
She climbs into my lap and nestles her warm head under my chin, curling up until her ear can feel my heartbeat.
"I love you, Mama."
And just like that, in her Pre-Preteen way, she reminds me that children need to push the limits to become adults who have boundaries; and in order to learn the right way to assert themselves, someone needs to be on the receiving end of their crude attempts at it; and for humans to learn how to love and forgive, they need to be shown it.
These two precious little people are learning how to be good bigger people, and the teaching job that it takes is mine, by choice. I really wanted it. And just like Acacia's violin playing, it will sometimes hit sour notes, but pushing through those screechy times will produce something far more beautiful, polished and confident.
(I, on the other hand, will emerge on the other side of all this a haggard, bald and wrinkled mess. Small price to pay though, right? Please pass the tequila.)
