week 39 // you are my wild

If our days were being recorded, Neve's voice would certainly occupy most of the soundtrack.  She, like her mama, is a talker.  So much so that even I find myself vying for an opportunity to squeeze in a thought.  It is not uncommon to hear exasperated voices rooms away pleading with her to, "wait!  Just wait a second and let me say something!"  And then my heart breaks a little because I know those are my genes.  I made her the girl who thinks everyone is having a good time until... boom.  Someone is begging you to shut the eff up.

I blame my need to be heard and love for attention on my rearing.  (Because of course.)  In a log cabin with no cable on 24 acres that looked something like a grandparent commune, I had more time than I knew what to do with myself.  One person can only do so many sad tape-recorded radio shows in their bedroom, or private Casio sessions, or practical jokes on their younger brother before needing to tell another about how awesome they were.  And so my own childhood memories are filled with love, encouragement, creative fodder, but also the sounds of others pleading for me to give their ears a rest.

In our house, there were certain non negotiables.  If Sundays were a day of rest, Saturdays were a day of chores.  Always.  We blared favorite records of the time (some great, some I would love to erase from memory) while dusting, polishing furniture, mopping floors, and cleaning toilets.  Nothing fun would happen until you could see Saturday's reflection in the sparkly clean floors.  Another non negotiable was we always kept a sketchbook.  For as long as I could remember, I always had a sketchbook or journal.  When bored, we went to our rooms and pulled out the sketchbooks, lest we wound up doing chores on any day other than Saturday.  

And the last memorable non negotiable was violin lessons.  

There was no choosing my instrument.  And there was definitely no getting out of it.  I was handed a small violin at 5 years old, scooted into a small room with a Suzuki teacher for half an hour, and expected to practice in my off hours the rest of the week.  No questions asked.  My mother & father did a great job hiding their Tiger Parenting Ways behind their misleadingly laid back hippie exterior.

2013.  Fourth grade at the girls' school means orchestra, band, or chorus sign up.

Fiona tells me that she wants to play the trumpet.  I feel the Tiger Mom slipping out as I tell her that it's already been chosen.  As if I'm introducing her to her arranged husband, I hand her the violin and tell her that "she'll learn to love it.  I'm sure she will."  She grits her teeth and smiles, as she makes herself hold it in an awkward way.  It's been 2 months since she began violin lessons.  She has picked it up in front of me only twice in that time.  I'm beginning to doubt any future chemistry between these two.

Neve, on the other hand, has been quieter in these last two weeks.  She has begun slipping away into corners of the house, playing the most godawful noises on a very unforgiving instrument.  But oh, how it's music to my ears.  Perhaps the unsuspecting talkative extrovert will find joy in the non negotiables of my childhood.  Perhaps this is one of the few genetic pay offs.

>>> as always,the week's collection

speaks louder than the individual <<<