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Piano Practice
"Plunk, plunk, plunk, plaaaat... plunk, plunk,
plunk, plaaaat.... Darn this stupid key!" my
daughter, Molly, yells as she pounds her fist on
the offending black note. I turn from my desk,
where I am paying bills, and remind her that the
piano she is practicing on cost us eight hundred
dollars. I do not want it to be mistreated.
"Seven hundred," she corrects me.
"Well... with tax it was eight hundred," I
correct her.
"No," she says firmly. "It was seven
hundred."
I wonder why she feels so certain, when to my
memory, she is wrong. Then I realize that she is so
frustrated with her piano skills that she needs to
be right about something.
"Maybe you're right," I say. "Besides, tax is
not really part of the actual price of the piano.
Since it only cost seven hundred, feel free to
abuse it however you'd like. There are hammers down
in the basement."
Molly giggles. Soon, I start to hear the plunks
again. I like the sound of those plunks. It is not
that they carry much musical quality yet. In fact,
after about twenty minutes they can become even
more annoying than paying our utility bills. But
the fact that Molly's fingers are pressing piano
keys means that she is focusing well, and that she
is learning to play music. I don't hear the notes
she is actually playing. I hear the concert she
will one day give to a grand audience in some large
auditorium.
I am dreaming. Worse than that, I am displacing
my dreams onto my child. Deep down, I dearly wish
that I was a professional musician. But that will
never be. As a child, I took piano lessons for
about three months. When I stopped practicing, my
mom stopped paying for lessons. So I went outside
to play touch football. I had a lot of fun. But now
my knees are too weak for football. And I regret
not spending more time as child learning to play
music.
Determined not to let this happen to Molly, I
began to pay her a dollar for each time she
practices a full half hour. I explained to her that
until she is good enough to really enjoy her own
playing, the extra motivation would be useful.
After about a year, she told me that she didn't
need the money any more. She wanted to practice in
order to learn to play, not to get money. That was
music to my ears. But I continued to pay her
nonetheless. I wasn't taking any chances.
Now we are bombarded with possibilities for
extra curricular activities: horseback riding,
martial arts, drama, art, dance, gymnastics, etc.
They all sound good to both Molly and me, but if we
tried to do them all, we would go crazy. So I am
very aware of the power I have in choosing which
activities to pursue. I take my cues from the level
of interest Molly expresses. But I must admit my
own priorities are added to the mix as well. I
won't drive through cross town traffic to get to
the dance class. And there is something about the
prissy way those gymnasts hold their hands that
turns me off.
While pondering the rightness or the wrongness
of my role in determining Molly's pursuits in life,
I notice the sound of plunks has stopped. I turn
from my desk to see her sitting listlessly, her
forehead resting on the keyboard. She is mumbling,
"I can't do this...I can't do this." Her dreams of
mastering piano are flagging. The promise of money
isn't cutting it either. I get up and move to the
piano bench and sit beside her. "Together?" I
suggest. She raises her head. I begin to count and
on the down beat we begin to plunk in harmony, two
octaves apart. She still makes mistakes. But not as
many as I do. When the half our is over, she gets a
big kiss and a bunch of compliments. If I am going
to foist my dreams upon her, I am going to have to
put in my time as well.
© 2008, Tim
Hartnett
Other Father Issues,
Books
* * *
Your children need your presence more than your
presents. - Jesse Jackson
Tim
Hartnett, Ph.D. is a licensed Marriage and Family
Therapist in private practice in Santa Cruz, CA. He
specializes in Individual Counseling, Couples
Therapy, and Divorce Mediation. He can be reached
at 831.464.2922 or through his website:
www.TimHartnett.com
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