"Why do I have to take piano lessons?" my eight-year old son moans half at the keys in front of him, half to the universe in general. He asks the question with the same tone of voice you would use for "Why must I have both of my legs amputated?"
I ignore him. This is my favorite parenting technique, even though it doesn't work. Ever.
"Mommmmmm....."
I sigh. "Are we really going to have this conversation again?"
"But, Mom. I hate playing the piano."
I know, I know. Some of you are thinking of Googling my address right now and reporting me to Child Protective Services. You can't throw a rock in a PTA meeting these days without hitting a parent who thinks that children should only be encouraged to do those things they love. I believe that, too, and I encourage my children to discover the things they are most passionate about, those activities that call to them, entice them to explore their potential.
Yeah. But in my house, your potential's going to include unloading the dishwasher, walking the dogs, and practicing the piano for about six years. Minimum.
We all want things for our children that we didn't have, right? Well, when I was a kid, I only got a few months of piano lessons. I'd like to say it was because my parents didn't have the money to keep the lessons going, but the truth was I was an exceptional kid. Exceptionally whiny, that is. I broke my Mom like a dead twig with my incessant complaints. I think I actually got her to let me quit two weeks before the recital. As any kid would tell you, nice work. I was six.
My Mom was strong, but I'm stronger. I have endured three years of almost constant complaints, tears, shouting, and even one attempt to run away (he made it about 20 yards before the rustling in the bushes sent him yelling back home). My ruthless tying of the minutes he practices to his time playing his Nintendo or online gaming is a technique worthy of Abu Ghraib. A Mom's gotta do what a Mom's gotta do.
The dumb thing is: he's good at it. I mean, really good. He's one of these smart kids who gets all the questions right in school without even trying. And when he practices the piano, he picks it up so quickly, and plays beautifully. Secretly, he loves to perform, and he volunteers every time he gets the chance. It's the practice that's the killer.
"Why, Mom, why?!"
I have given him every reason to continue that I can think of: it's a life skill; he'll be able to play for his kids (unlike me); he'll get better grades on his math tests (true, there's research on this); he'll be able to make money if he gets good enough; he'll be a musical chick magnet (OK, that's a stretch).
The deep reason is this: I want something for him to be hard-really hard-and no matter what you think, the piano is a very hard instrument to learn. You are never done, there's always another skill, a more difficult piece. Yet when you master something difficult, you have something to show for the time you have spent, more than some extra star power on Super Mario Galaxy, or online "friends" from Maple Story.
Cameron's still "why-ning" from the piano bench. Ignoring never works, and he knows all the reasons. He just wants to see if today will be the day I break.
I think not.
"You know, Cameron," I answer finally, pausing for a breath. We both know what's coming.
"Mom," he announces, as the timer goes off and he stalks across the floor. "I know what you're going to say. And it's Never. Gonna. Happen."
I raise my eyebrows.
"Mom, I will never thank you for this when I get older."
Oh yes you will, grasshopper, yes you will.
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