2017_06_09-28

 

Two weekends ago, my son and daughter performed in their violin recital.  I was looking forward to the recital because it’s a wonderful marker to the end of our school year (and I love to hear my kids, and the others, perform), but I was also quite nervous.  I was accompanying each of them on the piano and wanted to do a good job.  I knew all eyes and ears would be trained on my son and daughter as they played their violin parts; fewer would pay attention to me and my piano part.  Still, there were nerves.  I do this every year and it never gets easier!  I love the opportunity to play with my kids though, and since I don’t play much piano otherwise, the challenge of learning new music is good.

 

The recital went well.  I didn’t play perfectly, but good enough.  My kids were brilliant.  Okay, not really, but they did an awesome job.  My husband and I are always so proud of their hard work.  By the time we got home from the recital (and before we rushed off to my son’s soccer game), I was noticeably relaxed.  My job as accompanist was finished.  Nerves eased, job complete.

 

Aside from my personal relief of having the violin recital behind us, here’s what I love.  Yes, violin studies are officially finished for this school year, but there has been violin music in the house every day since.  And it gets better.  One day, my daughter was looking at a more advanced piece, and my son stepped in to help her.

 

Seriously, those are the moments that help me feel like everything is really okay, like my husband and I are actually doing a fine job with our kids.  There are other days when, let’s just say, it’s less apparent to me.  I try to tuck memories like that one into a safe space in my heart…for the days when things are more muddled, for the days when there are no more violin recitals (sniff).  I know those days are coming.

 

And yet, this is what I’m thinking about lately:  nothing is ever really finished, is it?  Yes, the kids’ violin recital is assuredly finished.  But in some ways, everything is just a continuation of something.  The recital is over, but my daughter is still interested in teaching herself a new song. I don’t perform in piano recitals like I did in my youth, but I’m blessed with the opportunity to accompany my son and daughter now.  One day, my kids will no longer live in this house (sniff, sniff), but maybe they’ll play me a song when my husband and I visit them in their own homes.

 

Things shift.  As parents, we embrace the shifts as gracefully as possible.  And, as needed, we gently pull the tender memories from those safe heart spaces and remind ourselves that, really, everything is okay.

 

From me to you, here and now…
Michelle