Little m Long a

(a scene from the car)  “Oh, that’s the Jonas Brothers.  There’s Kevin, Joe and Nick,” Zane pipes up from the back seat.

“Zane, I honestly can’t say that I’m proud you know that.”

“Good Lord!” I screamed from the front of the car to no one and to everyone.  “What is wrong with this picture?  Zane, please tell me it’s just a piece of worthless trivia.  Something you’ve stumbled upon and for whatever reason it stuck there in your head.  Quick–who were the Beatles?”

“Ooh, they were a band.  I like them.”

“Yeah, but who were they?  What were their names?”

“Uhmm…”

“Nooooo!! This can’t be happening!  Led Zeppelin?  Who was the lead singer in Led Zeppelin?  What about the Rolling Stones?  Name someone from the Stones.  Or The Who.”

“Who?” Read the rest of this entry →

There are two schools of thought on the whole let your kids win thing.  One states that you should never let them win.  They should have to earn it just as in real life.  It builds confidence, strength, character and a greater appreciation of the victory.  The other school of thought is to toss in the towel, let your kids win every once in a while.  It builds confidence, strength, character and a greater appreciation of the victory.  I’m torn on the whole issue.  While I’m all for winning and building up of a child’s confidence, I also believe that losing builds just as much confidence and strength of character.  It takes a lot to come in second or third.  I’m an also ran, always have been.  As our local paper would recount our high school track and swim meets listing top finishers in each race, they also had the kindness to publish the names of all of the competitors in each race–the also rans.  That was me.  I never recall making it out of the also ran column.  It’s easy to be a winner, but you know what?  Not everyone gets to be that person.  Every race or competition is filled with also rans.

Some of you may recall how last week I was forced to find new and creative ways to get Zoë to practice her piano lessons.  She’s done much better and practices are enjoyable once again.  An overwhelming number of those who commented (thanks Dan and Jen) asked about the actual sound bites that accompany my demoralizing.  Sadly, I was unprepared that day.  I did, however, put in minutes of practice this past week and challenged Zoë to another duel.  A showdown.

Stagnant.  Stalled.  Halted. At an impasse.  Distracted.  Amotivated.  Indifferent.  She just won’t do it!  I don’t want to.  I’m not going to!  These are just a few of the words or phrases that I could use to describe the current state of Zoë’s piano lessons.  It would appear that as the temperatures rise outside her willingness to apply energy towards practice inversely falls.  Two weeks in a row she has failed to meet her contracted practice commitment of 90 minutes.  (That’s a week people, not a day!)  My frustration level is at an all time high. 

Pressed for solutions, I expressed my concerns to my wife.  Make it fun she said, otherwise she’s going to hate it and we’ll lose her forever.  No easy task, mind you because right now, I’m not having fun.  I’m still looking for ideas (begging really.)  But this is what we did today and she really seemed to have fun…..again.

A little contest Zoë.  You pick the song.  I play it first, then you play it.  We’ll see who can play it better.  OK?

Well, OK, Dad…..You are so going to lose!

(Disclaimer:  It should be noted at this point that the extent of my piano knowledge and playing ability spans the exact amount of time that Zoë has been taking lessons.) Catwalk was the first selection.  I thought I had done a decent job.  She smiled at me and played it better.

Dalmations, she  called next.  Again, I thought my effort was decent, worthy of competition.  When I had finished she asked if that was my warm-up and was I ready to play it for real.  Again, she played it better.  I love you, Daddy.

Just call the next song!

Creepy Crocodile.  She openly laughed at me before I had finished.  Dad, are you really trying she said mocking me as I wiped the sweat from my brow and discretely a tear from my eye.  She played it better.  I was being handed my hat by a seven year old.

And so it went.  Long, Long Ago.  Better.  Claire de Lune.  Better.  I didn’t even try Chant Arabe or Allegretto I.  But she did and performed beautifully.  I was demoralized.  I thought I could get one better, just one.  One of the easy ones.  BUT NO!  The kid pummeled me.  You know what, though.  She practiced.  And she had fun. 

Who’s playing who now, you little imp?!

 She looked up and forced a smile, half of a smile, really for what she would have preferred were tears.  I saw it in her eyes, in her face, in her body.  Did you hear it, her eyes were asking.  Do you think Mrs.  Bender noticed?  What about the the rest of them.  Do you think they heard it?  She was being brave, consummate, strong.  I smiled, proud and winked at her.  You did good.  I didn’t bring it up, never even hinted.

We’ve signed a contract, Zoë and I.  Ninety minutes a week.  It’s usually more but never less.  We gave our word and must honor that.  It’s not easy what with the numerous directions we are pulled on any given day.  But you would think just 15 minutes a day would be a cinch.  I’m hear to tell you–it’s not.  Miss one day and you quickly find out just how difficult a task it is.  We didn’t have time for 15 minutes today and you think we’ll have time for 30 tomorrow?  Miss two days and your time management skills become the stuff of legend. Yet, at the close of each week we are able to say with all honesty we’ve given our 90 minutes.   We have kept our word.   We practiced piano like we said we would.

For the second year now, we have opened our home serving as a guest host in the Family Recital Piano Series, one of three such scheduled events to take place during the year.  Mrs. Bender, Zoë’s piano instructor created the series as a way of getting the families of her students together away from the structured, formal studio atmosphere and allowing the students to showcase their hard work.  It’s a great way to spend a Sunday afternoon in a casual setting meeting wonderful families and listening to some fantastic kids showcase some extraordinary talents. 

Zoë had worked extra hard to prepare her pieces for the recital and could not have been more excited.  Add to the mix that she got to wear a new dress and the enthusiasm was scarcely containable.  She was ready.  And she played beautifully.  But it did happen.  During one of her songs there was an extra note, a fumbled finger, an extra pause.  She didn’t stop, never quit smiling and took her bow and applause with the grace of a seasoned performer.  But she knew she had made the mistake and it was eating away at her on the inside.  I made no mention of it, never even hinted.

The rest of the day was without incident.  Laughter, food, games and good conversation filled the house.  Zoë even won one of the games and as a reward received a huge Hershey’s bar.  Without prompting she immediately divided the whole thing and gave a piece to all in attendance.  After everyone had left, the kids and I relaxed for the remainder of the evening enjoying leftover treats and punch.  Before heading off to bed, everyone chipped in and helped me clean up.  Truly, a banner day.  As I tucked the kids into bed and said my good nights I told them all that they were very good today and thanked them for all of their help during the recital.  Zoë at long last opened up saying, “Yeah, but I messed up a little bit on my song.”

“Zoë, you made me proud today.  I think you did a fantastic job and you played beautifully.  I loved it!” 

I could see immediately that the weight of the world had been lifted from her shoulders.  She had been set free, realizing in that instant that it’s OK to not be perfect.  That sometimes it’s alright to make a mistake.  That Daddy will still love you.  She is an amazing little girl and I am honored, privileged to say that she is my daughter.  And a pretty darn good pianist.

Yesterday was a long day.  Inordinately long.  I would probably even go so far as to say that there were extra minutes inserted somewhere between the hours of 10:00 am and 1:30 pm.  As the week draws to an end, fatigue rears it’s ugly head around our house and no one seems immune, myself included.  While the kids will bound from their beds bright eyed and jubilant on a Monday morning filled with the anticipatory excitement that a new week holds for them, by Thursday and Friday it’s a bit more like trying to get the uninvited, hung over drunkard who showed up at your party last night to get his naked ass off your couch and out of your house.

On Monday I’ll hear something like, “Good morning, Daddy! We love you!  It’s gonna be a great day!”

By Thursday, it’s pretty much, “Mmmmmfff. Wwwwhhhmmm. I don’t want to get up! I’m tired!”  All in that high pitched only a dog can hear it whine that I’m sure we have all experienced.  If you’ve got a toddler, the tone is burned into your brain and on an endless replay loop like some sort of bad 80′s song.  Try as you may, you can not get it to go away.  And just when you think you’ve got it out of your head the most  insignificant occurrence restarts the cycle.  It’s maddening.

I feel certain that much of my quandry with the time space continuum yesterday was due to my own lack of sleep.  There is a direct correlation between my fatigue level and my tolerance level.  If I’m well rested, heck, even adequately rested there are no limits to how much insanity I can tolerate.  My wife would argue that I am the instigator of much of the chaos around here.  I’ve got no defense.  One of my favorite games is “Hide and Scare” a sick twist on an otherwise benign childhood game where the object is to scare the pants off of the seeker.  Good times.

On the flip side….on those days that I’ve had less than acceptable shut eye, and trust me on this, if there’s anything I’ve learned as a parent it is that you really don’t need as much sleep as you think you do, five hours seems to be the acceptable magic number for me, God forbid you should spill your juice at the breakfast table.  What ensues is the incoherent ravings of a lunatic about how inconsiderate and unappreciative the whole lot of you are.  “What is so hard about drinking from a cup?  You’ve been doing it every day, several times a day for over 4 years!  Did something happen overnight that would cause you to completely lose all muscle coordination?  Juice doesn’t just grow on trees! OK, well it does kind of come from trees.  But we don’t own those trees.  I am sick and tired of cleaning up your messes!  Aaarrgh!!!”

Honestly, most of that conversation takes place in my head.  The kids usually hear the “Aaarrgh” part at the end, though.  But there’s a look in my eyes and on my face that I’m totally sure the kids fear.  They know.  Zoë has even started using one of my lines.  “Did you get up on the other side of the bed today?”  She never can seem to get a quote exactly right.  She’s always got to embelish.

So yesterday’s “straw?” you may be asking.  The markers .  The kids have ready access to the color drawer and had decided to start a little art project yesterday morning as I was cleaning the kitchen after breakfast.  I’m not quite finished when I notice a green trail from the dining table into the study.  It was almost as if they were afraid the’d get lost and felt it necessary to mark a return path.  Actually, my boy Z handed a marker to his baby sister who crawled with said marker in hand to the other room.  Hence, the marked trail.  And she, being of an industrious mind without ready access to paper decided that the next best option would be her twin brother.  That was of course after she ran out of open skin on her own hands.  And where was Z? My boy?  My buddy?  Mommy’s Golden Child?  Standing right next to his little sister head tilted ever so slightly totally absorbed in thought.  It was as if he were standing in front of Dali’s The Persistence of Memory trying to get into the artist’s head.  See what he was seeing as he created a masterpiece.

Needless to say, I snapped.  “Aaaarrgh!  What are you thinking?”  I can’t hit my kids anymore.  Family services said after the last time that they would start taking children.  I’m only kidding.  They said they would take me.  Really,
I kid.  I don’t hit my kids.  Really.  I don’t.  So I took a huge, deep breath, counted to ten, a few times, and told the kids to go to their room while I cleaned up the twins.  The counting thing really does work.

Then I got to thinking.  They are just going to sit up in their room and get bored and eventually go to sleep.  I decided that they needed more of a punishment than that.  So I made them do the absolute worst thing imaginable, at least in the mind of a four year old and a soon to be three year old.  I marched them back downstairs and made them clean up the playroom.  There was weeping and gnashing of teeth.  I’m also quite sure that there was rending of garments.  Bingo!  Punishment had been meted out.

You see, this past fall we carpeted one of the rooms in our basement and converted it into a sweet, and I do mean SWEET playroom.  The only way I can really get the kids to keep it clean is by way of threats.  I remind the kids about how cool their playroom is and let them know that if they can’t keep it clean I’ll just throw out all of the toys and make it “Daddy’s Special Room.”   The room is laid out perfectly for the media room I have always dreamed of.  To see it filled with Thomas the Train and Hot Wheels, Barbies, Little People and all manner of stuffed animals literally breaks my heart.

The resolve of a four year old boy can be quite astonishing.  After what seemed like hours of begging and pleading to come back upstairs (it was about 20 minutes) and not having picked up a single toy Z took a stand.  “Dad.  I don’t want a playroom.”  How in the world am I supposed to deal with that?  I should have known better.  This is the same little boy that will forgo chocolate cake for desert if it means he has to eat his green beans.  Even if you put the cake in front of him and eat it yourself.  He’ll just politely say, “No thanks.  Now may I be excused from the table?”

I never realized how good the acoustics in that room were.  It really is SWEET!  Thanks, Z for taking a stand.

I’m kidding.  I helped the kids clean up the playroom and we all lived happily ever after. Until the next load of straw is delivered.  Speaking of……”Aaaarrgh!”  I gotta go.  I hear water running.