©1999 Bonnie Wren
All Rights Reserved
This Is Not Your Mother's
Piano Recital
Few things can surpass a child's piano recital for sheer terror factor.
Your hands tremble, you can't breathe, you break out in a cold sweat,
fearful that a note may be forgotten... it's almost unbearable.
It can be scary for your kids, too.
But our boys' piano teacher wanted to introduce public performance in a
safe, pleasant way that would make recitals fun for the kids, a newfangled
concept if ever I heard one.
I did my part. I knew if I said just one word to them about the
recital, it would be so laden with my own anxieties that they'd be
instantly ruined for life. So I let the teacher do the verbal prep work
until the big day, when I blew it by telling the boys to get dressed in
their church clothes.
"What!" they cried. “The teacher didn't tell us we had to dress up!"
Hubby covered by reminding them the recital was being held in a church so
they had to wear church clothes. Mollified, they came out from
under
their beds and allowed us to slick down their hair and clean their ears.
They were ready, but were we?
Trembling, Hubby and I held on to each other as we entered the church,
smiling weakly at the other frightened parents sitting on the edges of
their pews. Meanwhile, all the kids goofed off, completely ignorant of a
concept called stage fright.
Then the recital began. None of the children seemed afraid‹unlike their
parents, whose anti-perspirants got a real workout. Hubby and I applauded
loudly for every child, hoping other parents would return the favor.
Soon it was my son's turn. He jumped up off his pew and gave the
“Touchdown!" sign. During his performance he made one mistake but
played on. We applauded. His brother was next and played his piece
perfectly. We applauded again with relief and happiness.
But the recital wasn't over yet.
More children took a turn on the piano bench. Each of them became a
surrogate for our own. If they made a mistake, we gulped in sympathy. When
they finished a piece, we whispered “yes!" All of us were in
the same boat, our hearts bobbing up and down with each musical swell.
Then a pretty teenager took the bench. A few seconds into her piece she
hit
a wrong note and stopped. The pause lasted much too long‹she didn't seem
to
shrug off her error like the other kids.
She started and stumbled again. The church became deathly quiet.
She started and stopped again. And again. And again. The pauses in between
became awful, tortuous intermissions--at one point I believe I
hallucinated. I could've sworn I slid to the floor, sobbing and begging
for
somebody to end all of our suffering--when the girl finally finished and
stood. We gave her thunderous applause until she reclaimed her seat.
The recital was over! Time to escape outside for refreshments.
No one should confront a dessert table after an experience like that. I
filled my face with everything I could grab, especially if it had
chocolate
in it. When I started to get dirty looks, I went for the carrot sticks. I
washed it all down with cups of punch and coffee.
I wasn't the only one, either. A grandmother arm-wrestled me for a brownie.
She won.
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