I'm No Tiger Mom

I'm no Tiger Mom; in fact, I'm a sort of Hostess Suzy Q sort of Mom, all soft filling inside, and, well, pretty soft on the outside, too.

Yesterday I sat next to a whiny nearly-9-year-old on the piano bench. This son hadn't practiced his piano for three days, much less for hours a day without being allowed to have a drink of water or take a pee break. He struggled with his review pieces in his second-level book. He said "You see, Mom, I'm no good at anything."

No, I don't see. I see that you haven't looked at these pieces in weeks or months in some cases, and your teacher asked that you review them before moving on to the next book. That's why we are sitting here together, reviewing pieces you had once mastered. I thought but didn't share: this is no picnic for me, either, buddy.

The whining was deafening and annoying, and I probably shouldn't tolerate it, but when a child tells me "I'm no good at anything," it is not in my nature to berate him and yell. Instead, I coddle and hug.

If that means I'm a soft, Western sort of parent and that my son's chances of playing at Carnegie Hall are nil, well, then I'm guilty as charged.

Hugs.