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fiddling around

Asher is an aspiring fiddle player. He had one teacher he loved, so of course she moved across the county after a year. We found another and he didn’t love her so much. Then we spent a year letting him recover from the crappy teacher and me recover from him and looking for a good teacher. Fiddle teachers are not a dime a dozen.

I finally found one, a young guy. I figured that might work. This week was lesson the third. Asher announced when we got in the car that he wasn’t going to his fiddle lesson. He hates fiddle. He never wants to take lessons ever again. Guitar! How about guitar? I pointed out that one also has to practice to learn guitar too, and go to lessons. Yes, said the boy, but guitar would be fun. He hates fiddle. It is too hard. He hates practicing. He hates his new teacher (who turns out to be somewhat terrifyingly strict at moments).

I dragged him into the lesson and he actually appeared to have fun, but renewed his rant the moment we left. This, I figured, was a bad bad sign. All the way home he complained. I sulked. He’s actually good at fiddle. I like fiddle music. I selfishly want him to continue. He nagged me for an entire year to find him a new teacher and I found him one. Enough already.

I sulked through dinner, answering in monosyllables. Unpacking stuff, I picked up his fiddle, put his bow in my hand properly – not easy, you know – and had a little go. Asher walked up to me. I said, “If you don’t want to play any more, maybe I should just learn this myself.”

He stared at me in what can only be described as utter shock and said with bafflement, “I don’t want to quit.” My jaw literally dropped open.

“Was this all about being hungry?” I asked. “Now that you’ve had dinner, all is good again?”

He shrugged. “I dunno.” Then he said sternly, “I just know I am not quitting.”

They sure know how to screw with your mind, these little beasts.

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