Recorder Hell

I'm going to tell my daughter that my first recorder was yellow. Just like you just told me about your green one, Mom.

It started out so sweet, spoken by my oldest daughter on a recent Saturday evening as we drove home with her new recorder. It was for music class. Not for home use. I'm not one of those moms who tolerates loud, poorly executed, off-pitch noise with ease and a smile.

Later that night, a dark cloud settled over our house - 'twas a three-day weekend. Sunday passed with no incident.

Monday morning was different. Little girl fangs appeared in the mouths of my once-sweet daughters as they lashed out at each other hysterically. Playing and fighting over the recorder as they galloped wildly in front of the television; CBS Inauguration commentators trying desperately to tell me something. But the shouting was too loud. And the message of hope was lost on me.

I tried quieting my monsters the usual ways: time-outs, TV, holding an offer to take them to the pool over their heads...if they would just show me they were ready for school the next day.

My last ditch effort: I took that recorder, gavel style, and banged it against the doorway as hard as I could. Who knew the recorders of this generation were so cheaply constructed? The yellow recorder shattered. Immediately, the fangs retreated. The backpacks were set for school on Tuesday. And my sweet little girls and I went to the pool.

A week later, and weakened by guilt, I purchased four more recorders.