There comes a moment in every parent’s life when their child enters fourth grade and brings home a recorder. At first you think, “Great — I’m glad to see that public education still values music.” But as soon as “Hot Cross Buns” screeches across the house, scraping against your eardrums like fingernails on a chalkboard, you change your tune.
Hot cross buns. Hot cross buns. One a penny, two a penny. Hot cross buns.
“Go practice in your room,” you say — not unkindly, but harsher than you normally speak to your fourth-grader.
Hot cross buns. Hot cross buns. The muffled sounds creep about the house, making it impossible to cook dinner without shuddering. One a penny. Two a penny. There’s nothing you can do. The buns are coming for you.
Two months later, your child has lost her recorder, and it’s a big deal because she needs it for school. You drive to Kennelly Keys and purchase a replacement recorder, even though you know it’s a torture device.
At least your fourth-grader has moved on to learning “When The Saints Go Marching In.” Unfortunately, it’s nothing like the jazzy rendition Louis Armstrong plays, especially since your child still hasn’t learned the second line.
Oh when the saints. Oh when the saints. Oh when the saints. Oh when the saints.
“Read the next notes,” you shout from the kitchen. You take out your aggression by tenderizing steak with a rolling pin.
The joke’s on you, because as soon as your child masters the rest of the song, she plays it incessantly, like you’re trapped in an evil, other-world version of Mardi Gras. “Look, Mom,” she says. “I can play it with my eyes closed.”
You’re not impressed. In fact, you’re seriously considering stealing their recorder, dropping it on the driveway and backing over it with your SUV. You can almost hear the sound of plastic crunching on pavement. But no, there are good and bad ways to be a parent, and breaking your child’s recorder is a no-no. Besides, fourth grade won’t last forever, and you won’t have to listen to the recorder ever again, right?
Wrong. Remember that first recorder floating around the house that was supposedly lost? Your older kid finds it, and spends a rip-roaring weekend reminiscing about fourth grade.
“This is awesome,” says Kid No. 1.
“We can play duets,” says Kid No. 2.
“Nooooo!” You fall to your knees and beg, but it’s too late. They launch into a screechy rendition of “Jingle Bells” that makes your hair curl. “Christmas was five months ago,” you cry, as you hide underneath a blanket.
Jingle bells. Jingle bells. Jingle all the way. Oh what fun —
No. It’s not fun. The recorder was never fun. It was a sick joke the school district played on parents to get even with them for underfunding public schools.
“Big finish, Mom. This time with our noses!”
If you plug your ears, will it all go away?
Jennifer Bardsley publishes books under her own name and the pseudonym Louise Cypress. Find her online on Instagram @the_ya_gal, on Twitter @jennbardsley or on Facebook as The YA Gal. Email her at teachingmybabytoread@gmail.com.
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