Q is for Quitting

There's always soccer.

I informed Luke's piano teacher last week that he has decided to quit his lessons.

His decision, and his parents' acceptance of it, did not come easily, or quickly.

Luke has brought it up a few times over the past six months, but I attributed it every time to wanting to do something other than practice. I took lessons for nearly 12 years, so, I get that. (Mom, can I sign up for cross country? No, you have to practice piano. Mom, can I go play outside with Cath? No, you have to practice. Mom, can I join cheerleading? Oh, yeah, well, I simply didn't make the cut on that one. But never mind, she still would have said I had to practice my piano.)

Luke always seems to get re-energized after a lesson, where the benevolent Ms. Anna works with him and praises him and encourages him. After less than two years of lessons, that kid is better than I am after 12. Yes, I sometimes cringe as I listen to him practice something new, but once he gets the hang of a piece, it really is beautiful.

I have memories of my own piano practices and lessons, and they are not so pretty.

First, there was the problem of our piano being situated in the living room of our modest Georgian. Although some neighbors had 'recreation' rooms in their basements, typically the living room was the general purpose room. It was where we did our homework; it is where our mothers sipped coffee, or martinis, depending on the hour or the mothers, while we played. Most importantly, it was where the TV was and where my parents would watch the 6 p.m. news before we sat down for dinner. And it seemed that no matter what time I sat down to practice, it was inconvenient for my brothers or my parents or I'm sure in some instances, our dogs.

Then there was my teacher, Mrs. Sittner. She was a stout woman with a bottom that would make J.Lo and Beyonce look anorexic today. Must have been all that sitting on piano benches, but that's not my point. She scared me. I'm sure she was a very lovely woman, but I just remember being scared of her. Every Monday I couldn't eat because I knew I had to sit next to her at 4 p.m. and hear her disappointment for 30 minutes.

And, finally, the truth is that I simply have little talent when it comes to music. I can read it. I can appreciate it. But I do not have the gift my maternal grandmother had and which Kevin's side of the family certainly has, and which I think Luke inherited. They had, have, and he has, the ability to hear a piece of music, feel a piece of music, and then bring that music to life.

My parents and my maternal grandparents bought me the piano I played and on which now Luke plays, when I was six years old. It was a big deal, a big expenditure, and they did not let me forget about it. Quitting was not an option in the Bennett household, so we all suffered through until I was a senior in high school and finally convinced my parents a future in music was not to be mine, and I finally quit.

Clearly I'm not over it, but I accepted Luke's decision, albeit with the hope that he'll just take off the summer and pick it up again in the fall. Ms. Anna said she hoped so too.

I've had a week to get used to this, and I'm no longer looking at Luke's quitting as a bad thing. In fact, he has inspired me, and I've begun to quit some of my own "obligations," deciding if I no longer enjoy something, I shouldn't spend my time on it. Thanks, Luke, for showing me the way.

All for One, and One for All?

We've banned the word "mine" in our home. I expect to hear it from the 2-year-old, but it was the 9-year-old's constant use of it that put us over the edge.

"That's mine," Luke yelled when is brother, half his age, came to breakfast wearing an old Megatron costume.

I pointed out that the costume had not fit him since his last growth spurt, the one that's made him tall enough for all the rides at Great America. I added that it was great that TJ was putting the costume to good use, dressing as the megalomaniac character from Transformers to devour his scrambled eggs and sausage.

Later that same day, TJ, always resourceful and curious (read: sneaky and nosey), found a box of very cool Micro Fliers given to Luke a few years ago, and wanted to build some of the planes. Knowing it was Luke's, and knowing that might be a problem, I suggested that TJ and I play them together and have Luke join us when he got home from school.

My bad.

Upon returning from school and seeing us building the Micro Fliers, the older brother screamed, "Those are mine. You are ruining them."

Gosh, I thought we were playing with them. Don't you want to play with them, I asked Luke. "No, I want to keep them nice."

Clearly, I've got bigger problems if that's what he really thinks. Is there a Future Hoarders of America he could join at school?

So I've stopped trying to make things 'fair,' when it comes to managing the material wants and desires of my three boys. Their toys and games no longer have my protection. You don't want your brother to play with that? Too bad. Jealous of that birthday gift Aunt Jen gave your brother? Don't worry, he'll share. No excuses, no exceptions.

The toy room is open for business, and I suspect things might get a little rough.