As Mother’s Day approaches, I notice I have entered a new stage of motherhood. Mother’s Day used to be filled with homemade cards that children spent hours decorating the night before, behind closed doors to keep the goods top secret.

One year there was even a large banner hanging over the piano. I remember noticing that my daughters were tall enough to string it up so high. Then of course there were the Mother’s Day homemade cookies, and when they outgrew those, there were healthy vegan muffins.

I am in new stage of parenthood. This is the dreaded stage. My girls now provide running commentary on what they really think about their childhood. The things they remember. I really can’t believe how well they remember details.

This is a warning for all mothers of young children. Take my word: They recall the strangest details.

Recently, one of my twin daughters sent me a copy of a paper on reflections for her college music class.

I opened the e-mail, just thrilled to get to read the thoughts in her head. This is part of this stage. Distance, such as college to home, doesn’t separate us. I am thankful. Then I open the reflection she submitted to her teacher and I am in shock.

How did she remember the violin lessons and the recorder lessons? She was 4 years old.

Now she looks back on this and says:

“I remember it all started with the violin. As much as my teacher tried to show me that the “horse-hair bow must drag across the four strings, with the instrument balanced between your chin and your extended arm,” I was ever deviant in the assertion that it must be held between two hands, much like a guitar or banjo, and strummed. In short, the violin was an instrument I would never master. After months of torturing my violin teacher, I was, in my eyes, downgraded to the recorder.”

The truth is, she’s right. She was downgraded, but I thought the violin teacher and I presented it to her in a way to cover this. I guess not. How perceptive are 4-year-olds, anyway?

Well, I read on in her college paper and after going through the recorder, clarinet, piano and guitar, she poses this interesting theory:

“Music lessons have truly been at the heart of part of my upbringing, probably from a number of reasons that range from my parents needing to a break from actually being parents for a half-hour or two or maybe they just wanted me to become a one-man band.”

Yes, I enjoyed having a half-hour once a week to read a book in the car while she took a music lesson. It was sort of a break for me, but how did she know this? I swear I was doing it for the greater good of her musical education, not just for the break.

And I never expected her to become a one-man band, though I could see how she would conclude this, after my willingness to support all of these lessons.

I dare not look back and calculate the cost of the lessons and instruments for 13 years. I mean, you’d think she’d be Mozart after this investment.

But then, she concludes in the paper that this crazy musical journey her parents were hell-bent on gave her something far greater, something that was deeply unexpected:

“Those keys taught me the value of dedication and the rewards of persistence. Every scale I fumbled or forgot, every chord I stretched my small hands to reach, pushed me that much harder to be able to succeed.”

Well, this reflection brings tears to my eyes. I thank my darling daughter Aliza for letting me share this with readers.

Happy Mother’s Day.

Sarri Gilman is a freelance writer living on Whidbey Island and director of Leadership Snohomish County. Her column on living with meaning and purpose runs every other Tuesday in The Herald. She is a therapist, a wife and a mother, and has founded two nonprofit organizations to serve homeless children. You can e-mail her at features@heraldnet.com.