under the baby grand

See these three adorable, law-abiding, sweet children enjoying a Sunday morning reading together in bed? Well let me tell you a story about a cold Tuesday afternoon with this triumvirate...

We live in Austin. And because we live in Austin, it was only a matter of time until we gave into the pressure of the self-proclaimed "live music capital of the world" and forced our children into learning musical instruments--everyone here plays a guitar or the drums or the piano or is some kind of indy musician. Thus, we finally purchased a digital piano and lessons for the children are imminent. I know Scout is all in, but I want to make sure Catcher understands the dedication it takes to practice (practice, practice), so we're going to start slow with a music camp this summer.

This brings me to yesterday afternoon. It was cold and drizzly, so I figured a trip to the library was the perfect afternoon outing on our one day during the week not dedicated to soccer, ballet or lacrosse. First, however, we would stop by the music place (I'm not naming it for fear of incriminating myself, as you'll see) to sign up for camp.

I told the children before entering that they had to be respectful and couldn't start banging around on the pianos. If they had listened then I wouldn't have a story to tell. Instead, I have a story about two children [your guess] wrestling on the floor under a grand piano with the grand price tag of $40,000. I also have a story about a little girl [guess again], whose face is painted like a clown from preschool earlier that morning, who began screaming hysterically with tears and snot running down her face when she heard we would not be going to the library due to our insane behavior at the music store. Then there was the angry six year-old who took off running out of the store and hid behind a trashcan outside upon hearing the same news.

Yes, there were others present for this episode. There was a mom who maybe felt my pain (but not in the way where I got a shred of sympathy from her). She gave me a "girl, you crazy" look and nervous laugh while she and her well-behaved twelve year-old son tried to move away from my psychopath bolting out the door. She whispered "We'll come back" to the gentleman behind the counter who was trying his best not to be totally freaked out while outlining the various camps available. He turned to me in an "I feel sorry for you but not really because I also think you're crazy and could you please get your children away from the freaking $40,000 grand piano" kind of way. Oh, and he also followed Catcher out the door and said hesitantly--as in I'm scared this kid might knife me--and without any sort of authority to him "You should come back inside." I was still tending to the snotty, screaming three year-old with clown makeup running down her face and the four year-old banging on every piano--didn't I say don't bang on the pianos?--that I didn't have the energy to chase Catcher. I knew he wouldn't go far. He's too first-child sensible for that.

After gathering my belongings and casually blaming their behavior "on the weather," I left with my tail tucked between my legs. The guy behind the counter charged my card for the camp deposit after we left, though, so I guess we'll be allowed. Or else we'll have to find another studio that all my friends recommend.

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