All my dreams have come true. My daughter brought a plastic recorder home from school. They are learning to play it in music class. "I need to practice," she told me, and started wailing on the thing on the way home.
"Okay, sweetie, can you practice outside?"
She gave me a look. "Mo-o-om! It's 16 degrees outside!"
"I'm not sure what your point is," I responded.
The first song she is learning is Hot Cross Buns. In 1980, I learned how to play Hot Cross Buns on a recorder. I even still remembered the notes. B A G! B A G! I don't remember my mother complaining about the time I spent practicing. Either I've blocked it out or she took some heavy-duty sedatives at the time.
I know it is called child abuse when a parent abuses a child, but . . . who will protect the parents? Who?