The piano, and a not too successful mother

Le Piano.

Ce matin je suis allée a mon professeur de piano. Elle est trés gentile, et je trouve que je peux apprendre beaucoup avec elle. Maintenant, j’ai presque fini mon premiere pièce de musique, qui s’appelle Swabisch. Cette une pièce dans le niveau trois dans les livres de Conservatoire. Chaque jour je joue le piano et practique cette pièce. La dernière section a encore besoin plus de travaille. Je veux memoriser toute cette pièce!

Now, as part of my saying farewell to old pieces, here's the opening to a story about a mother who's tried to be a big success, and, well, isn't.

The successful mom........

“You weren’t at work today; you weren’t at work yesterday, and I doubt that you made it at all to work this week. What’s going on?”


Lynn was a mother, distraught as all mothers become distraught. When do you stop worrying about your child? From the beginning, Cynthia had been difficult, mood swings in grade four, long before p.m.s. came into play.

Cynthia pulled her long hair back into a severe pony tail. “And when did this become your business, Mom? I think that you forget: I moved out of your house several months ago to avoid this kind of questioning. And now you’re spying on me, checking up on when I’m working and not working.”


“I’m not checking up on you. I happened to phone your office today and yesterday and I couldn’t reach you. So I was worried and I came over here to see what was going on.”


“And you find me at home, in my track pants, healthy instead of sick as a dog, and you decide to rant.”


“I assumed that you were sick, yes, and I worry, yes, because you’re my daughter. And so tell me. What’s going on? Why are you home?”

“I’m home, mother, because I want to be. I’ve got some things to work out and I can’t work them out when I’m sitting at the office with a bunch of complaining twits who should have found a life a long time ago.”

“Then what are you working out? What could you possibly be working out except looking at the bills for all your crazy clothes and wondering how you are ever going to pay for them?”

Cynthia stood up and began to gather up some of the clothes that had fallen onto the floor the last few days. A black blazer, several pairs of capri pants, one of them covered with silver sequins for clubbing. Lynn stared at each item as Cynthia hung them up in her closet.

Her girl was extravagant. She was sure that a large portion of her paycheck went towards clothes and more clothes. She had friends who were clothes horses and this didn’t help. But Lynn knew that you can’t save up much when you’re spending so much on clothes. And what could you do with all these unnecessary items.

Where in heck could Cynthia even wear some of these crazy things? That polka dot halter top, for instance, with puffed sleeves. It was silly. Men might like it, of course, especially since it cloaked Cynthia’s sleek young body, but that didn’t make the item any more ridiculous. It wasn’t a cheap, hooker outfit, but it bordered on strange and Lynn was uncomfortable with anything strange.

“Where did you wear that thing?” she asked, pointing to the halter top.

“Oh, I was out clubbing on Wednesday, I think. It’s cute, isn’t it?”

“Cold more like. Funny that I always taught you to wear sensible, non-revealing clothing.”

“Yeah, and look where it got me, Mum. I’m worse that your worst nightmare, aren’t I?”

“I never said that. Don’t put words in my mouth. Girls have to go through all these stages.”

“Oh Mom, don’t give me all that psychology crap. Stage one development, part five. Teenage development. That chapter doesn’t fit me anymore. I’m too old. And I don’t think it ever fit me.”

“But I based my book on you!”

“Don’t I know it; and you revealed all my childhood and teen experiences at those talk shows. You made your career on me. First you watch me, analyze my behaviour, and then you write about me and your incredible strategies for dealing with a difficult daughter.

“You were never difficult. Just....”

“learning a separate identity, moving beyond parental patterns, reproachful but also simultaneously grateful for the strong, guiding influence’ See mom, I have your wonderful book by heart, don’t I?

Lynn sat down on the bed amidst the myriad of clubbing clothes. She looked at her neat little high heel shoes. She was always proud of her size five feet. “Cynthia, you’re awfully hard on your poor old Mom. Why aren’t you proud of me. Look at the success I’ve had. Admittedly you have been my case study. How else could I have found experience.”

“Why not test your theory out on rabbits instead? Or baby chipmunks for all I care. But no, you showed me again, as if I needed to have the message reinforced that you didn’t respect me.”

“That’s absurd and unkind. What greater respect can I give you, lets even use the word honour, than to use you as my starring subject in books that have helped a nation of girls.”

Lynn was gesticulating small, almost frantic movements with her small hands, those same hands belying what she said, for some small part of her realized that what she had done was not right. That respect and honour were not the right words to use. But this knowledge was shoved into a tiny part of her brain that she refused to access.

“Okay, Mom” Cynthia ventured. “Imagine I were at a bar tonight.”

“You’re not going out again tonight. You can’t. You’ve got to make it into work tomorrow. How can you keep your job...”

“Stop it Mom, this is just an example. Again. Imagine I were at a bar.”

“The last place you should be,” her mother piped in. I never condoned drinking. I know that in adolescence some people feel the need to....”

“Stop it, stop it, stop it. Just imagine me, drinking, dancing, wearing one of these outfits.” Randomly she picked up the polka-dot puffed sleeves.”

“You’re causing me pain,” Lynn said. “But carry on."

Cynthia smiled. "But there I am at the bar. I decide to pick up a guy. You’re watching me, but there’s nothing you can do. You know that the guy is a jerk. Let’s say he’s the sons of one of your publisher’s: a spoiled, selfish brat, but for some reason I must find him attractive.

..... to be continued?