Consistency. Commitment. Dedication. Tenacity. They’re all qualities that I try to drum into my boys. They’re right up there with don’t backchat your parents, be kind to your friends and this house doesn’t come with a laundry fairy that transports your washing into that big white machine in the kitchen.
I want my offspring (aged eight and nine) to be grafters – the kind of kids that stick at things and don’t give up when the going gets tough. For the purposes of this moral lesson we will overlook the fact that, since my oldest was born, I’ve been on approximately 1,675 diets and there isn’t a piece of exercise equipment in existence that I haven’t purchased, dumped in the corner of my bedroom and then reclassified as a clothes horse.
But back to the children. They have to see things through. Keep going through the hard times.
This week I realised that comes with an exception.
‘Mum, can I give up playing my brass horn?’
If you live within a ten-mile radius of my postcode, you may have heard the exultant cheers.
Yes, the horn is dead. It’s the musical equivalent of a lottery win for the ears.
Apologies to all you serious musicians out there who are accomplished in the ways of the horn, but one more night of Low junior marching up and down the hall playing an approximation of ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’ would have tipped me over the edge.
There should be a law against it. Or a commandment. Thoust shalt not emit a noise that maketh thy mother’s teeth grind.
Please don’t judge me. I’ve always tried to be an encouraging, all-round supportive parent. I didn’t complain when Low the Elder’s participation in the wettest, muckiest football season in Scottish history cost me more Daz than Danny Baker could shift in a lifetime. I bit my tongue when a flirtation with martial arts ended in the destruction of my living room lamp, a sprained ankle and a request to change Low the Younger’s name to Jackie Chan.
When Low the Elder took up the guitar and played ‘Wonderwall’ all night, every night, for a month, I dealt with the pain by convincing myself that we were a thick set of eyebrows and an arrogant swagger away from Oasis.
But then, like all good things, it spiralled out of control. The youngest decided he shared his brother’s musical aspirations and got in on the act. I’ve no idea why. It certainly isn’t a genetic predisposition. I can just about strum the best of the Beatles on the guitar, as long as it doesn’t involve more than three chords and none of them require doing that ‘bar’ thingy with the index finger. And, while I adore my husband, I may have mentioned (at least once a month and usually when he’s committed a marital crime like forgetting to Sky+ Criminal Minds), he’s not a natural musician. If we used the rhythm method of contraception I’d be trading in the jalopy for a twelve-seater mini-van.
Anyway, the piano came next. Then the saxophone. And then horn. Or, as it’s more commonly called, ‘a migraine too far’.
Now that it’s gone, I’ve learned my lesson and I’m drawing up new rules. No more musical instruments. No outdoor sports in winter. And our little Jackie Chan will be changing his name back pronto. From now on I’ll be encouraging them to take up only quiet, indoor activities geared towards health and fitness.
They’ll have a great time pedalling on that clothes horse.