As new parents, my husband and I were passionate about every detail of our first son's care and education. We had determined that violin lessons were a key ingredient in the development of his character and talent. We committed a lot of energy to supporting his lessons and practice times. Given the intensity of our effort, it is surprising that his love of the violin survived his childhood practice sessions! (As an adult, he still plays in a community orchestra.)
Every week in the group lessons, we would encounter other parents and children who had begun music lessons at the early ages of two, three, and four. Our son was one of the more advanced four-year-olds, and I'm afraid maternal pride kept me from really valuing the other children in the class. Particularly problematic was two-year-old Angela, who cried in every class and seemed unwilling to follow the simplest instructions. Self-righteousness made me feel very critical for her parents. I fell prey to others' comments about them and slipped into some strong opinions about how that family should reorganize their lives.
My awakening came one day when the students were supposed to "graduate." Hearts swelled as every child except Angela showed his or her mastery. She played so dreadfully that I thought surely the teacher would realize she could no longer be in my son's class. Her stumbling and silliness were agony to put up with. But during her performance the teacher of the class sat transfixed with love as he listened. When she finally got to the end, he stood up with enthusiastic applause. I was perplexed by his honest delight.
