Exercises on the Trill
(memento mori)
Once you reach your forties there is one truth that hits you unavoidably — that there are only two types of adults roaming the earth: the ones who regret not learning to play an instrument and the ones who play an instrument.
I did not need to hit 40 to be aware of this fact; I have been painfully familiar with this concept since my twenties, and only a profound dislike of maths and physics prevented me from pursuing a degree in aerodynamics or quantum physics or whatever it was that Dr Emmet Brown had studied that provided him with the skills to build the Delorean so I would be able to travel back to 1991 and explain to that 12-year-old that she needed to stick with it. Such is the pain that this causes me that when my midlife crisis first appeared in my life seven years ago and I sat down to write the proverbial bucket list, second in that (very) short list stood, in clear, crisp black over white, “2. Learn to play the piano.” Numbers 1, 3 and 4 I will get into at another point in time.
Such was my determination that C went and bought me a piano for my 40th birthday and I got myself some classes that I had to, unfortunately, interrupt due to number 1 in my bucket list. That is, as I mentioned, a story for another time.
In the meantime, two of my children have reached the age where people are signed up to music lessons, and my resolution that they learn has been so fierce and, let’s face it, sneaky, that tiger mums out there have nothing on me.
P attended toddler piano lessons at the age of three. When faced with the fact that he was more interested in banging the head of another child with a drumstick he must have found lying around, we signed him up to “daddy and me” ukulele lessons. C dug it so much he bought a KALA ukulele and is still self-learning. We had to drop the “and me” when P, at the age of 5, said, “Mum, I hate this.” I did not give up and signed him up to choir and asked him to stick to it for two semesters. He did so dutifully, and I found out he was proficient at counting and his notions of time were on point by mid-third semester when he said, “Mum, I have not mentioned that I know this is the third semester, but I do, and I hate this.”
Much to my chagrin I had to retreat and depose arms. This seemed a lost war until 2024 when, in the middle of the world mourning the 25th-year anniversary of Kurt Cobain’s death, C went through a Nirvana phase and P got so caught up in it he said loud and clear, “I want to learn to play the guitar.” I think I have never felt so happy. The sneaky bitch inside of me took over and replied, “That is wonderful, but if I sign you up and buy you a guitar you have to stick to it for 3 years.” I thought the move was genius while I braced myself for the ensuing battles around practice time. Lo and behold, Paolo landed with a teacher that has cultivated his love for the instrument so much and so well I rarely need to remind him to play, and this year, when faced with the choice of a PlayStation or an electric guitar, he chose the latter. Praise be to God.
With CA it has been slightly different; the difference not lying in the intensity of my efforts, but in her uptake of the art. She saw the piano there, standing in the living room, sat at it from time to time to press the keys randomly, which was just as well, since no one else was doing it. When prompted with a “Do you want to learn?” which I pronounced with enough skill to make it sound indifferent when in truth I was burning for a positive answer, she said yes, and before she had time to take back her words I had made her sign a three-year contract à la wicked sea witch.
“You are mine,” I thought while smilingly saying lying to her, “You are going to LOVE this.” She doesn’t. But let me correct this statement: she loves the teacher and loves playing the songs once she has mastered them.
She HATES the struggle.
And I guess here I am in a position to understand her, because when I was 10 I saw myself in my brain performing concertos, only to be confronted by a poor performance of “London Bridge” in real life, and as much as I love winning, unnecessary toil just ain’t my thing.
But we are in the second year and she sits at the piano every day, previously negotiating how many times she has to repeat “Chant Arabe.” “Ten,” I say. “Five,” she retorts. “Twelve,” I reply without breaking a sweat.
One of the latest best moments I have spent with her was a Saturday morning when she was struggling with a piece and I played in parallel with her two octaves higher and we did it together maybe 20 times, breaking the spine of each damned compás, and we came out the other end exhausted, smiling.
“Jag kämpade och jag vann,”1 she said laughing, so full of self-confidence. I have to admit that my joy at her conquest was momentarily tarnished with the thought that popped up, “I am tiger mum, how awful.” I managed to suppress the intruding thought whack-a-mole-style.
I sometimes feel guilty about my approach to musical love. Like, I will wonder if my tyrannical ways will damage my children’s ability to thrive, but I discard the guilt when I remember that regret is far worse. Or at least I say this to myself whenever P and CA seem reluctant to practice.
“I want to hear you practice until your fingers start to bleed!” I say… jokingly?
And P laughs because he is at the age when he gets his mother’s hyperbolic tendencies. CA, on the other hand, lifts her little fingers and stares at them, possibly thinking, “Must there be blood?” or maybe quietly calculating the number of Xanax she will ingest daily in her early twenties to cope with the post-traumatic stress disorder she developed in her infancy. C laughs and says, “Way to go with your motivation speech, babe.”
And me? What happened with my long-lived wish to make music? Well, since I told you all about my midlife crisis camping in my apartment grounds, I will tell you all about my musical endeavours in the next instalment. I am the man in the arena, fighting the tempo side by side with my children.
“I fought and I won.”
Dear Ana,
Many years ago, when I was a little girl, my mother made me take piano lessons. I, too, liked the idea of being able to play an instrument, but hated the struggle; I dropped out of lessons by the time I was in middle school, much to my mother's dismay. I, too, decided as a young adult that learning an art and learning science were mutually exclusive, since that gave me a good excuse about abandoning art. I, too, grew into an adult who regretted not learning to play an instrument when I was young.
But my fondest memories of time with my mother remain when she would play piano and I would sing with her.
When I turned 50, I learned how to play an instrument. This past summer, I played my dulcimer while my mother played the piano. At Christmas, I'll play her songs I've struggled to learn but that were her favorites when I was a child--and favorites of her mother's, that they sang together long before I was born.
It is never too late. No effort is ever wasted. It may be decades before your children appreciate the gift you have given them--it was for me--but they will.
As a repeat midlife crisis-er who decided to finally learn piano at 50 (didn't go very well) as well as the long-suffering mom who ruthlessly makes child stick to piano AND violin lessons, I have so much to say about this Ana. But not right now, too tired. I'll be back!