We live in a quad-level home in suburban Detroit. The kid’s rooms, much to their dismay, are both clustered right by ours on the top floor. My son is directly across the hall. Needless to say, I hear a lot of his friends saying “what?!?” when he’s whispering into Skype, trying not to be overheard.
Generally, there’s much to be overheard. My kids are both musicians. My son’s room is a crazy, overloaded space with a desk, two computers, a keyboard (he’s teaching himself), his bed, a full drum kit and all of the various sticks, pads and stray cowbells that seem to follow drummers around. It’s not a big room and it would make me crazy to feel that crowded but he loves it. If the clothes are mainly off the floor and there’s no odd smells of old food or overripe socks, we’re mostly okay with it all.
With the good comes the bad, though. Musician children are great. Sons that play drums, daughters that play viola: awesome. Sons learning keyboards, also awesome. Son learning keyboard by playing the opening piano sequence from Coldplay’s Viva La Vida over and over and over and over, well…
And over and over and over.
At the same time, I really admire it. I don’t play an instrument. Never had the patience or the drive – something I’ll always regret, I think. So while the repetition of this particular bit of Coldplay can get old pretty quickly, the fact he’s willing to keep at it until he’s got it down means the world to me. He’ll get it at some point and move on to the next one and the next one. I can only sit back in wonder that this kid is mine ( and hope the next one isn’t Coldplay.)