A couple of weeks ago we finally got off our butts and enrolled Leta into piano lessons. We’ve been pretty hands off in terms of forcing Leta into activities, mainly because she would so rather be reading a book than kicking that stupid ball around the field, MOM. Well then, Leta, let me introduce you to a little motivation: DAVID BECKHAM.

The face that launched a thousand balls!

However, since Jon plays classical piano and for several years played keyboard in two separate bands MAKE THAT AT LEAST A DOZEN BANDS (Jon just texted me from bed where he is still recovering from gallbladder surgery to correct my mistake. NOTED.), and since I took lessons as a kid and continued to play and write songs by ear for years afterward, this is something we want her to experience. Our plan is to encourage her through a year of lessons, and then we’ll see if she wants to continue. If she decides not to, PSYCHE! SHE DOESN’T HAVE A CHOICE!

And then Jon and I high five each other, bump fists and wiggle our fingers with a PSSST! because we’re so lame.

So far she loves it, at least she grew to love it after those first few scary minutes of staring at that giant, harrowing row of keys. Her teacher is lovely yet firm, and the rules for having her as a teacher are fairly strict. Meaning the whole family has to dedicate at least an hour EVERY DAY to practice. That includes weekends. Usually, if I dedicate an hour to anything it’s trying to figure out what to do with all this belly button lint.

I mean, the possibilities, right? A scarf, maybe? A sculpture of cotton candy? Something I can sell on Etsy. If you have any extra lying around you can put it in a ziploc bag and send it to me. We can split profits.

Who wants to design a logo?

And wow, pretty soon, no, VERY soon, the lessons are going to be beyond my own abilities. And she’s going to whine IT’S SO HARD, I DON’T KNOW HOW TO PLAY THAT PART, STOP POKING ME IN THE NECK WITH THAT KNIFE like she has every single time we sit down to practice. And I’m going to be like, DON’T LOOK AT ME. You’re the one who taught herself how to read when she was four years old. I’ll be over here sewing my lint scarf while you use your menacing laser brain.

Today she taught herself how to play “Deck the Halls” all by herself. So, progress! Even though it’s not really seasonal. If I were That Other Kind of Mother I might point that out and deny her food for two days. I mean, THE GALL.

Instead I clapped and had to take a few deep breaths. Because this is the beginning of something really beautiful.