This September we’re faced with a crucial decision. And not just
any decision, mind you, but one of those deep dark, life-changing
decisions people are always warning you about.
This September we’re faced with a crucial decision. And not just any decision, mind you, but one of those deep dark, life-changing decisions people are always warning you about. You see, this year my son is enrolled in the instrumental music program, which means, you guessed it, he has to choose an instrument to play.
Oh, of course I’m happy about this because we all know the positive benefits of music in the classroom and, hey, I’m a sucker for musicians.
But choosing the most perfect instrument on which my son will begin his entire musical career brings up all sorts of issues for which I’m not quite prepared.
I mean, you can’t just go out all willy-nilly and pick up, say, a trombone and call it day.
Trust me, entire books have been written on just this subject. For instance, they say you have to consider your child’s disposition. Does he prefer classical music or jazz? Brass or woodwind?
Does he like hitting things with sticks, or is he more of a mouthpiece sort of a kid?
So finally, using a complicated method of inner soul-searching that consisted of eliminating any instrument that was too big, too small, too loud, too girly, too embarrassing, or that had too many “metal thingies,” he (and by that, I mean “we”) finally decided on a – wait for it – trumpet.
Yes, that’s right. A trumpet. With only three measly keys how complicated could it be? Right? RIGHT?
Well, that’s what I thought, too, until after I signed the paperwork, and the music store guy said in a sly, knowing sort of way, “By the way, do you know how to care for it?” He then gave instructions which went something like: You remove the valves every day and soak them in lukewarm soapy water.
Then gently brush out the valve casing and mouthpiece. Then soak the rest of the instrument in the bathtub, grease the valves, and apply a mild conditioner. After that, rinse, pat with a towel and blow dry.”
I think he also said something about styling gel and extra-hold hairspray. But I could be wrong about that part.
However, all this over information didn’t seem to intimidate my son. As soon as we got home, in a display of enthusiasm only seen by aerobic instructors and owners of new musical instruments, he immediately took his trumpet out of his case and made a noise, which sounded a lot like, oh how shall I say this? Well, it sounded like a dying duck.
Now before you start yelling, of course I didn’t tell him that. Instead, I clapped wildly and flashed a “rock on” hand signal.
However, this isn’t the real problem.
The real problem, which I hadn’t thought all the way through, was that he wouldn’t have his first real music lesson for two whole weeks. So that means I’ll be trapped under the influence of a kid with a new instrument and no formal instruction for, I repeat, TWO WHOLE WEEKS.
Sure, a wiser person would’ve seen this coming. Clearly, I am not that wise. However, the nice thing about me is that what I lack in wisdom I make up for in enthusiasm. So every time he plays a song (and I use this term loosely), I clap. And jump up and down. And shout, “Hurray!”
The good news is that he thinks he’s so good, that he can’t go for three minutes in a row without making some kind of trumpet sound. The bad news is (see previous sentence).
However, the other good news is that I’m sure that sooner or later it’ll all pay off, and my son will discover his life-long passion for music and become a well-respected trumpet player, and become rich and famous and dedicate a CD to his supportive mother for lovingly encouraging him on his first instrument.
Hey, one can always hope.
