Apparently, fifth graders simply cannot move on to Middle School without learning to play the recorder in music class. Its all "NCLB" or something. They can buy a recorder of their very own for four bucks or they can borrow one from the teacher. But who really knows what kid has had his or her fish lips on those things over the course of the last 35 years.
Gross.
Lucky for the girl in this house - she has a recorder at her disposal. Oh, yes! Grandma, lover of all things musical and fan of all things grandchild, owns her very own little plastic toot-toot complete with fingering chart.
And Grandma likes to share her stuff.
Unfortunately, Grams, I discovered that this recorder of yours is broken or something because it only plays three notes.
The same three notes.
In the same order.
Over and over and over without ever stopping.
Ever.
I tried to fix it (by hurling it against the wall) but, no luck. Still stuck. Of course, even when it does not appear to actually be in the girl’s mouth – or even in the same room she’s in, for that matter – I can still hear those three notes playing again and again in my head.
She keeps leaving it out and I keep "putting it away" for her. No matter how creatively I store it, she keeps managing to find it. I think after the first time it disappeared she installed a tracking system in the mouthpiece. Darn Net Generation and their techno-experience.
Now my girl hangs in the living room, with her borrowed recorder, pretending to be the Pied Piper.
I hang in the kitchen, with a glass of wine, pretending to be on a deserted island with Bradley Cooper.
No worries, friends! My husband knows all about Bradley and me. And he is completely unconcerned. Completely and totally Un.Con.Cerned.
Anyway, there I am, with my wineglass and my unrequited love affair, wondering how on earth my mom survived all those years of piano and guitar and saxophone and recorder and singing (Dear Lord, the singing!). Not only that, there were times when she actually told us we sounded good.
That woman lied to her very own children right through her perfectly straight pearly whites.
But I totally get it. Now that I’m a mom myself, I understand why she patiently endured years of brain pollution.
Was it love and pride in her adorable offspring?
I doubt it.
My best guess? She was probably drinking wine on a fictional deserted island, too…