Performance Piece
Becoming a parent is like learning to sight read a new piece of music. You've learned the principles of playing the instrument; you technically know what the notes and marks on the page mean. But you haven't heard it before, so you're unsure how it is supposed to sound.
You start fumbling through it, playing the notes haltingly and off-rhythm. After a few tries, the first page of music starts to come together. You start to hear what it would sound like when played through by a "real" musician. You manage to play a few measures in a row without missing a note, and the melody hits your ear in a pleasing way. You flash a secret smile and think, I'm getting this! Now you can move on to the next page, and the page after that, and soon you'll be performing the whole piece without giving it much thought.
So you turn the page. The next one looks more complicated than the first. The measures are chopped up into eighth and sixteenth notes, and there's a change in key. You fumble again, slowly learning the new measures. It seemed intimidating, but you actually pick up on it quickly, now that you're starting to grasp the overall tone of the piece. Again you start to feel the pleasure and satisfaction of making music.
Then somebody interrupts with a sudden knock on the door. Or you get to a page where the notes are smudged. Or you sneeze and lose your place. Something puts a stop to your flow. You pause to take a breath, then look back to find where you left off and realize you don't know how to start from that spot. That measure only made sense with a lead-in from the prior ones; otherwise you're diving into the middle of a melody and doesn't feel right. You need to backtrack. It seems like you don't yet know this song as deeply as you'd thought.
I play piano at a very amateur level. I haven't reached the point of being able to smoothly play a song from beginning to end, or even from top to bottom on a single page. I don't have the discipline to get to that level. But there are moments when my fingers feel exceptionally nimble, and the music travels through them, up my arms, and into my body, and for a moment I feel the way I imagine "real" musicians feel while performing.
As a parent, I have these harmonious moments of feeling like I'm finally performing my role the "right" way. There are some days when I'm attuned to my kid and he, in turn, is receptive to my requests. He gets things done without arguing. I successfully keep my tone of voice neutral. He doesn't beg or whine. When he tries to bargain with me on something reasonable—say, to get up and brush his teeth after he puts the finishing touch on an art project—I accept the deal to show that I trust him to hold up his end. I feel like I can read his state of mind and what he needs from me. My parenting is fluid, responsive, melodic.
I've got this! I think. This is the rhythm we shall create every day from here forward.
Then something happens—I get tired of expending the effort, or he starts resisting me, and suddenly the whole thing sounds off key. He becomes headstrong. I lose my cool and snap in a way that is not "right" for a parent to do. The song is ruined, and with it all the progress I've made toward learning this music.
Of course, what I forget in those moments of despair is that I've laid an unshakeable foundation. I have a relationship with my son that will morph and change its tune in the years to come. It will frequently frustrate us and occasionally stump one or both of us. He will sometimes seem unknowable to me. I need to trust that if I keep practicing, and listen carefully to what the music is trying to tell me, it will turn out beautifully.