The Gift

Last year my husband and I gave a lot of thought to the Christmas gifts we would give the children. Like most parents we took into consideration the things the really wanted and of course the things they would "just die" if they didn't have. Some they got, some they didn't but nobody died. Yet.

One of the things my son asked for, it was on the "die if I don't have" section of his list, was a guitar. Wanting to encourage artistic talent and expression in our child we thought this was a good idea.

Having had my brief stint with a musical instrument in childhood I wanted my son to have that as well. My mother did not encourage me in that area, to be honest I was only allowed to practice in the garage. I never felt encouraged to play the instrument. I wanted my son's experience to be wonderful, telling him what a good job he is doing. Hell, I had the boy playing Jimi Hendrix by age 10. Christmas morning he woke up to find his most sought after gift delivered by none other than the Jolly Old Elf who's only goal is to make my sons dreams come true. He was so happy, he carried it with him all day, he sat it by his chair at Christmas dinner, he kissed it goodnight that evening and gently set it by his bed. Which is where it has remained, until today.
He has pulled out his long forgotten gift, the book and the CD that accompanied it to learn how to play. In order to better share his gift with the rest of the family he has chosen to practice with the CD player in the living room. He found that learning to read the notes and learn the finger placement was just to hard. Choosing instead to find the notes on his own. The CD gently lulls a rendition of "Mary had a little lamb" accompanied by my son thrashing a horrific sound and saying "See mom, I don't need the book I can find the note on my own." Everytime he has found an even more horrific note than the last one I hear him yell out "Mom, did you hear that one? Didn't that sound good?!".

I found my body has forced itself in a slow retreat from the living room. I am now in the bedroom which only causes him to play louder to ensure my listening enjoyment. I don't know how long I can last before I feel the blood begin to trickle down my face as my eardrum has burst. I find that I am bombarded by one thought and one thought only....
"I will not be my mother!" No matter how much I would like to lock the child in the garage, I will not. Thus I do not know if I will survive to write to you again.
I have nobody to blame but myself, I bought this godforsaken present. My dreams are dashed, no Santana will hum from my 7 yr olds fingertips. But I will smile and assure him that is the most beautiful sound I have ever heard. All the while attempting to fight my bodies instinctual reaction which is to use that damn thing as firewood!