Music Mom

My family is not athletic.

Don’t get me wrong—we’re healthy, eat right and get exercise, but it is not in our DNA to chase a ball around a field or court. We don’t lace up our sneakers and go run for fun, or find joy in hurling ourselves through space. In fact, the only time I run is to catch my bus, and that’s with my fully loaded backpack, dodging other pedestrians who foolishly stand between my destination and me. I’ve never knocked someone down, but it’s been a close thing. Most of the time I think people are laughing at me, a, overweight, grey-haired woman wearing business attire, running down the sidewalk with an indomitable look in her eye. If i were them, i’d probably laugh, too.

But that’s not what I wanted to write about today.

I don’t carry musical DNA any more than I do athletics, but I was certainly the vessel for them. I am in fact a music mom. I have been for about twenty-five years when my youngest started piano lessons. She stayed with it for years. Saturdays were arranged so either my husband or I (mostly my husband, also a musician who could speak with the teachers about the kids’ progress far better than I) would cart the kids off to the local university’s community music program for piano, violin, music theory and composition lessons.

There was always music in the house as they practiced, or my husband rehearsed for his own gigs. There were school concerts, which I adored. So many young faces, singing and playing their hearts out. Then there were the recitals. How I loved those recitals. Seeing my daughter dressed up in a new outfit with her hair so pretty. Or my son wearing his first-ever clip-on tie.  I loved watching the children progress, from early days of pinking piano keys and sawing away on their tiny violins and cellos, to proficiency, and in some instances, mastery. What I loved about those studio recitals was the mix of abilities and growth, encapsulated in a ninety-minute program. We still joke about the five-year old cello student who had fallen asleep waiting his turn, only to wake up, rub his eyes, and go up on stage like it was nothing but a day’s work for him. No fear, just joy in the music.

I always baked the cookies for the after-concert receptions. Butterscotch oatmeal. It was a given I would bring them to every event. My kid’s teachers would ask to make sure I was bringing their favorites. I miss those days. Miss the pride, the sense of connection and community, the excitement and the nerves.

My daughter still plays, but is not a performer at heart. She just delights in making music for herself.

My son went on to get a bachelors and masters in music composition. We drove to see his performances at school, always a treat. But I thought those recital days were over. I joked that I didn’t need to sit through another torturous rendition of Twinkle-Twinkle variations, but in my heart, I missed them.

My son now spends a few weeks each summer working at a music camp. Because it’s nearby, my husband and I are able to attend the concerts, both those by the faculty (breathtaking in their brilliance) but also by the students, plucking their strings and tentatively eking a tune from the grand piano. And I’m once again talking to other moms and dads about their children’s musical progression, watching them cry tears of nerves and tears of pride, as their child moves up the ranks from the accomplishment of getting a sound out of their instrument, to feeling the music flow through them out into the world. I was thinking it almost like a circle that I am back to this, but realized it never really ended, and has been a dear, delightful constant in my life.

I am a music mom.