Ok, Mama, Whatever.

Golly, I am always caught between this place of trying to suck the meaning out of my day and needing to spend more time sleeping. But here I am. Meaning wins.

Which reminds me, I am reading the book Smart Moves right now, which is all about brain development and learning. The section I read tonight focused on how we need some kind of movement (say, typing) to make learning stick, and it gave me one more reason to justify blogging. Hmmm, that sentence has a sarcastic ring to it, but I just mean it at face value.

Ok, so I am really here to tell on myself. I took part, the bad part, in a ridiculous scene today with my son. Earlier in the morning, before Whatever Else ensued, I made a mental note to try to change our day's scenery a bit by spending some time exploring music with my kids in the attic. It was later in the afternoon by the time we got there, and I wasn't exactly bursting with fresh energy, but there we were. My daughter and I sang some songs and shook some shakers, and I showed my son where Middle C is on our digital keyboard, though he moaned "Mama, why did you tell me? I wanted to figure it out myself!" Ok, everyone is normal. That's good. I switched to clue giving and my son was able produced a scale. I thought I would do wonders for everyone's interest in learning music by demonstrating the only song I can play in four-part harmony, Silent Night. Yawn. Ok, Mama, whatever.

Son proceeded to play with creating harmonies, and suddenly some light bulb seemed to click in his mind. He insisted that if he pressed all of the buttons on the panel, the ones you use for changing from piano to organ to harpsichord (and etc.) mode, that he could get the piano to play a song by itself.

Now, this keyboard belonged to my late father, and I've never played it much, but I also certainly did not want it abused. And I knew that our neighbors had a keyboard that played songs automatically, so I was sure that a) my son was mistaken and b) him jamming all the buttons down would cause damage. I made emphatic statements to the effect that I was not an ignoramus and any odd sounds caused by what he was attempting would be proof that he was going to permanently damage yet another piece of household property. He tearfully insisted that he liked it, and it was clear, once again, that nothing was going to dissuade my son's will of steel from his chosen path.

With a weary feeling of resignation about changes of scenery I slumped into the rocking chair. Suddenly, that dang keyboard began playing a song of its own accord. For a split second I imagined my father's ghost was involved. My children danced delightedly, my son with his victorious smile, and I apologized for being so stubborn and impatient with him. Of course, my son didn't really know how he got it to happen. I fished out the keyboard manual, and there it was, how to play the demonstration song by pushing down on various tone buttons.

If I live to see my son become Pope, not only would it not surprise me, but it would be his ultimate poetic justice.