I'm sitting outside Isabelle's music class - behind the door, I can hear the cheerful pixie piano going and the trample of little feet across the wooden floor. Stay at home motherhood is funny - this weekly hour as I sit and wait for her class is a quiet break when I can write and think or just play brickbreaker on my cellphone. Or it would be if this week was not also music exams at the conservatory. As I type, a poor examiner is witnessing a crime against violins being comitted in the next room. I don't know how bad it must sound in there, but I'm about ready to go in there with a pair of scissors and snip every hair on that bow, so the examiner may be hard of hearing if he's let it go on this long.
Dan and I were talking about this the other day. Growing up, I didn't have much interest in music and it wasn't particularly encouraged: the result being that I can't dance and my sister gently suggested that it might be kinder to the kids if I played CDs for them instead of singing. Dan grew up in a very musical household - and he has the piano skills to prove it. Yet, he doesn't have all warm fuzzies about those early experiences either.
Honestly, I'm not sure if I can handle the years of noise that it takes to be a competent player. I don't know if I want to be trucking the kids around to all the different lessons or monitor the praticing on top of homework. I worry that their time is already so structured and there are other things (like sports) that are important to their development too. And what if they've taken the wrong combination, inheriting none of their father's talent, all of my tone deafness and yet his confidence to play blythely in front of crowd. An American Idol disaster in the making.