I have to say, arranging for the kids to play instruments has been an extremely satisfying experience for us as parents. Mostly.
Santa was awesomely generous this year, giving the kids a drum kit, guitars, violins and various other instruments as a group present. A music teacher now comes once a week to teach Master7, Miss9 and Miss5. With this very talented man they have a choice of guitar, keyboards or drums – they can pick whichever they like each week, so long as they practice. Best of all, because they’re all here and he doesn’t need to travel, it’s only $40 for 1.5hrs of tutoring. Although, painfully, two of our grommets mostly choose to learn the drums.
But we really feel like we’re doing something right. Certainly music lessons seem to be helping the kids with their focus. Plus, we have this lovely image of them sitting around campfires strumming guitars and singing Kumbaya with their friends. Which is much nicer daydream than the one where we’ve shown them the gateway to the damp and foul mouthed halls of sex, drugs and rock’n’roll.
But I sometimes fear they’ve already caught a glimpse of the seedy side.
Like earlier this week when Master7 was practicing drums on my bum – playing my tush like a bongo as I marched into the kitchen. It was all a bit of fun until I thought he’d stopped and spun around to chase him back through the house. Unfortunately, he hadn’t finished, as I learned when his hand shot out and I got sack whacked.
“@$%&@*!” I sang out and folded neatly in two. There’s no denying he’d heard the words before, but the configuration was new.
“Dad!” said Master7. When I went down, he’d frozen. Knowing he’d caused me considerable pain I think he was a bit concerned about the repercussions. “Are you alright?”
“Never better,” I grunted at him. I’d remembered my fellas don’t work anymore anyway. Probably a good idea to give them a love tap every now and then to make sure they remember that.
And on the bright side he’s getting in some brawling experience for when his punk band performs in those alcohol fueled halls. That’s good parenting right there.
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