His Childhood Is Different From Mine

Joshua likes to be included in my day-to-day routine. He enjoys domestic tasks such as doing dishes and sweeping, although his version of these chores often generates further domestic chores such as vacuuming up glass from broken dishes, mopping up puddles of soapy water, and removing crumbs from his stuffed dog which he claims is a broom. He likes to pretend he's paying bills while I struggle to balance our checkbook, and he always joins me for a cup of tea midmorning. In recent weeks, he has come to enjoy the time I spend practicing my musical instruments. He sits on the piano bench with a music stand set in front of him, and plays his "bass", his "violin", and sometimes the "cello". (He usually fashions his stringed instruments out of a plastic fife or tin whistle, using a pencil or small mallet for a bow. I am proud to say that at the age of two, he knows how to hold the instruments appropriately, either under his chin for violin, or leaning against his shoulder for bass and cello.) He vocalizes his most virtuosic imaginary sonatas, stopping occasionally to exclaim, "I like this note, mama!", or "That bass sounds goooood." When I finish a piece, sometimes he applauds.

He's gotten so comfortable with my practice routine lately, that yesterday he insisted on taking a nap in the music room while I worked. He made a little bed for himself out of decorative pillows, lay down right there in front of me, and drifted off to sleep while I played a Francaix sonata. He slumbered blithely through a piece by Leclair, although I probably would have dozed off too, since I found my reading of it to be rather uninspired. Unbelievably, he also slept through my rehearsal of Petrouchka, which is not remotely soothing. I stopped short of playing the piccolo part to The Firebird (another Stravinsky tour de force) since that would have been bad parenting. It occurred to me as I felt the first tiny flutters of movement in my belly, reminding me that I'm sharing my body with another human, that Joshua has probably been sleeping through my musical preparations since before his birth.

I think it's possible that when he heads to preschool, he may be the only kid in the class that knows who wrote Petrouchka ("Mr. Stravinsky", he says matter-of-factly), has changed the lyrics of Old MacDonald to "Old MacDowell wrote two piano concerti, ee i ee i oh", and can recognize the difference between Charlie Parker's alto and John Coltrane's tenor. It's eerie when he walks into my practice room and asks, "Is that Mendelssohn?", especially when that is indeed what I am working on. I'm thinking I may want to start showing him some episodes of Sesame Street, and soon. I have made it a house rule, however, that he can't begin violin lessons until he's potty trained.

It Takes All Kinds to Make a City, Part 2

My husband, a professional jazz musician of note here in Colorado, recently informed me about a local gentleman who calls himself The Jazz Whistler. Peter had the displeasure of witnessing this man's craft at a jam session a few weeks ago. The Jazz Whistler, a former employee of Hewlett Packard who quit his job to pursue his music career as presumably one of the world's foremost authorities of jazz whistling, maintains an email newsletter announcing his upcoming gigs so his fans will know where to find him. Somehow my husband ended up on this mailing list, and it is worth mentioning that the only event listed in the Jazz Whistler's newsletter was in fact the very informal community jam session which Peter decided to drop in on.

Mr. Whistler, as we'll affectionately call him, arrived on the scene a few hours early in order to painstakingly set up his elaborate amplification system. (Obviously, it's very difficult to project one's whistling over the piano, bass, and drums which comprise a standard rhythm section.) Once the evening officially began, he sat in on the first few tunes, warbling his way through "Autumn Leaves" and a few other standards, including "Round Midnight", in which his unaccompanied introduction proved to be in the wrong key entirely. The house band finally got him off the stage, and he didn't return until later in the evening, but only because the wife of one of the musicians showed up and couldn't believe there was such a thing as a jazz whistler, so they had him come up and play again just to prove it to her.

Now, clearly this man has a dream, and has thrown large sums of money at pursuing his dream. He has paid other musicians (real red-blooded, instrument-playing ones) handsomely to perform on his self-produced album. He has a mailing list, for crying out loud. However, the phrase "Don't quit your day job!" seems to be tailor-made for Mr. Whistler. On the one hand, I want to have respect for a dreamer who unhesitatingly follows his heart regardless of practicality. On the other hand, Peter's complimentary copy of Mr. Whistler's compact disc will remain shrink-wrapped in our basement where hopefully a cat will pee on it.

Did I Really Just Say That?

Every once in a while, I utter a phrase which stops me in my tracks and makes me realize that having a toddler is an adventure unlike any other. Here is a sampling of some things I have said to young Joshua in the past couple of weeks.

"Take that lemur out of the dishwasher, please."
"Don't put the potty on your head!"
"I'm not going to sing you a song about poop."
"The cat doesn't like it when you rub yogurt on his tail."
"No, you may not have beer in your milk."
"Actually, farts don't come from your penis."
"But now Mr. Froggie smells like fish sauce."

I can imagine it's only going to get worse. Children require a lot of explanation of what is and isn't ok in the world. I just hope I can remember to tell him when he's doing the right thing, too. It's hard to remember to praise him for clearing his dishes from the table when he carries them to the sink upside down.

Birthday Milestones

Today Joshua and I celebrate our birthdays. He is two today, and I am thirty-one. Since we both like Thai food, it's very easy to celebrate together. We shared some coconut milk soup and Phad Thai for dinner this evening, and Peter brought home some ginger white chocolate chip ice-cream. Joshua got a tea set and some moose slippers from us today, and he'll be getting a big play kitchen at his party on Sunday. Joshua gave me a stuffed frog, but I think it might actually be more for him.



He had a friend over today to practice his tea party etiquette. We decided that he definitely needs to have a tea set, since he's been serving us tea out of legos for the past five months. He's also completely enchanted by the whole process of cooking, so I think the new kitchen will be a big hit.

Local Mom Makes Good

In addition to being a world class toddler wrangler, I am also a conservatory-trained classical flautist. This means that I am highly proficient in an area of expertise which is useful to almost nobody. Sad as it may be, our nation's economy will not come to a grinding halt if we stop training people who can play "Flight of the Bumblebee" faster than a hummingbird's wings. Understanding how to translate the ebb and flow of a heart's passion into an auditory experience will not do a thing to lower gas prices, cut down on harmful bacteria, or get dinner on the table in half the time. However, aspiring musicians continue to pack into music schools throughout the country, spending countless hours refining their technique so as to become superhuman powerhouses of artistic prowess, albeit with tendonitis and a very slim chance of gainful employment.

Being a mostly stay-at-home mom is sometimes a difficult job to reconcile with being the Artist Formerly Known as Kristin. Sometimes when I sit in my son's music class, I admit to being a little disappointed at the lack of harmonic complexity in "Where Has My Little Dog Gone". I can remember when I thought I was being lazy if I had only found three hours a day to practice flute, and didn't even bother to get more than an hour of piano and harp practice. Now I am relegated to sneaking down to the basement during Joshua's naptime and practicing whatever I can get my hands on for a half hour before he wakes up, hoping I will be able to maintain enough of my skills to be able to show my students how to play without sounding like I can't.

This is why, when I heard about a job opening in a nearby regional orchestra, I was skeptical about auditioning. I already play flute/piccolo in the local orchestra, but it's only a semi-professional group (they only pay the section leaders) and not the most rewarding musical experience. There aren't that many opportunities to play around here, so I decided I should at least try out for the bigger orchestra. Competition is always fierce for these jobs, even though the pay is not stellar. So I took my one hour a day I could scrape together, and practiced the audition repertoire to the point of nausea (although it may have actually been morning sickness, since I'm almost 3 months pregnant). In the back of my mind, I kept thinking about those lucky young music students with their gleaming 5 hours a day of uninterrupted practice time. "I'll bet none of them had to cut it short because their son spread diaper rash cream all over his face and clothes while he was supposed to be napping", I thought.

To make a long story short, audition day arrived and I was one of seventeen candidates competing for two spots in the flute section. Seven exhausting hours after I arrived, I had passed all three rounds of competition and was offered a job! Of course, I'll have to drop out of the last two concerts of the season to have a baby, and then I can only imagine how little practice time I'll have with two kids under the age of 3, but I suppose things will work themselves out. I was telling Josh (amazingly articulate and wise at the age of 2) about my new job the other day, and he thought about it for a while and said, "I don't want a job. I'm too little." That almost made me happier than winning the orchestral position.

Commie Elmo: Dictatorship of the Proletariat Muppet

According to the wisdom of industry, planning the Perfect Birthday Party for one's toddler is a piece of cake. All one really has to do is identify his/her favorite animated character/marketing tool, and then purchase the theme's coordinating set of invitations, plates, napkins, party favors, mylar balloons, and perhaps a pinata. The toddler is ecstatic to see his/her esteemed hero adorning all the accessories, the parents feel smug about making their child so happy, and the marketing executives continue to make a bundle off their cult of personality. Everybody wins.

My son is turning two next week, and he couldn't care less if his cups coordinate with his tablecloth. If I had to pick his favorite character, I might say it is his nightlight. Seriously, the kid loves talking to his nightlight, any time of day. He doesn't watch TV, and hasn't really gotten wrapped up yet in the smothering commercialism of our culture. Since, however, I am not immune to these pressures, I feel the need to designate a party theme. So the theme that my husband Peter and I are considering is Commie-Elmo: Dictatorship of the Proletariat Muppet.

The guests could all wear matching jumpsuits, and we could give away copies of the Muppet Manifesto as party propaganda, er, favors. We could have a Capitalist pinata for the little ones to take swings at. What a nice memory for the scrapbook! Of course, poor Joshua wouldn't get any presents, and none of the other moms would let their kids play with him again. Perhaps we'll have to come up with a different party theme after all. Has anyone seen Nightlight paper plates anywhere?

It Takes All Kinds to Make a City

In any given week, there is a good chance that we will go get tacos from our favorite inauthentic Mexican chain restaurant. The fastest way to drive to this taco place (actually owned by McDonalds) is to take the shortcut which winds through a warehouse district, by the schoolbus parking garage and an inexplicable goat cheese market. There is a sidewalk along this deserted street, and I've often wondered if many pedestrians promenade along this not-so-picturesque route. Then the other day I spotted him. I saw a tall and lean shirtless man rollerskating along the path sporting a luxurious brown mullet, a thick curly mustache and what was certain to become a nasty sunburn on his angular shoulders. He wore cut-off denim shorts which drew attention to his pale skinny legs, making his rollerskates all the more eye-catching. In one hand he held a crumpled up paper bag, and in the other hand he grasped a half-eaten hamburger. Time seemed to stop as he glided past like some sort of a mythical white-trash unicorn, and I've never seen the likes of him, or any other person, on that street since then.

The tacos were excellent.

Sock Procrastination

Throughout my adult life, I've had a certain pet peeve about non-committal sock wearing. Imagine, if you will, a lethargic man slumped in the center of a crumpled sofa, his face devoid of emotion or recognition, his eyes unfocused and unaware of my supremely powerful feminine death-ray vision. One foot, sheathed in a taut white tube sock, rests comfortably on the carpet, sinking ever so slightly into the thick nylon pile with the weight of a wet sponge. The other foot, naked and hairy, dangles in the air as he crosses one leg over his opposite knee in a casual and masculine way. In his hands, he holds the other sock, the matching mate, the flaccid and deflated companion sock. Time passes. He doesn't move. Why won't he put the other sock on? How can he sit there like that, staring out the window with only one sock on? I wait, I breathe noisily through my nose a few times, hoping he will sense my irritation and snap out of it, but the stalemate continues and I must leave the room.

This scenario has been played out multiple times, with different men and all varieties of socks. I asked my husband if he could explain this phenomenon. He says that it's a commitment issue, that sock procrastination is a way of delaying the impending responsibilities of the day. Once you put on that other sock, he says, you must commit to work.

I'm not sure if that is the explanation for every man or just my husband, but today I was shocked when my almost two-year-old son gleefully removed one sock during a diaper change. I asked if he wanted the other sock off, and he said no. I asked if he wanted the sock back on, and he said no. He spent the rest of the day running around the house with one sock on, one sock off, revelling in his lack of responsibility. He's so like his daddy.