Without any warning, my daughter came up to me about a month ago and asked if she could take saxophone lessons. Gracie, the most girly-girl child on the planet, wants to play the sax. This completely took me by surprise because I would’ve assumed she would go for the flute or maybe even stretch the limits and try clarinet. I certainly wasn’t expecting her to lean toward the saxophone. We had a long talk about it and I learned that she was absolutely convinced it was the instrument for her.
Gracie currently plays piano so when her teacher arrived for a lesson I discussed the situation with him. He teaches several instruments, including saxophone, so we decided to let her give it a try for the summer, provided she kept up on her piano work. Gracie was elated. We trudged off to the music store to rent a saxophone and Gracie began lessons a few days later.
To my surrounding neighbors, I assure you, we aren’t housing a wounded duck inside our home. The cries of injured wildlife that you hear piercing through the walls are merely the sounds of a beautiful brass instrument begging to go back to the music store.
Griffin, our dog, must be kept out in the backyard whenever Gracie is practicing, and our cat is placed in the farthest room away from the “music.” It’s the only humane thing to do. I’m also wondering whether our three goldfish are wishing they could bury themselves under the gravel in their tank.
Jack, my son, puts his headphones on and plays his video games during daily duck call time. That leaves me. I bravely stand outside the room where Gracie is practicing and utter words of encouragement. I am a mother. That’s my job. Like many moms before me, I smile, cheer and encourage my child no matter what ghastly sounds come from the bright, shiny instrument. I guess things could’ve been worse. She could’ve chosen the tuba and then we might’ve been listening to the sounds of a wounded hippo instead of a wounded duck.