June 24, 2010
Last year at this time, James was taking violin lessons. And last year at this time, violin lessons were going terribly, horribly wrong.
James had just turned four and his violin teacher was some random, mature gentleman who really didn't have a way with children. Actually, in all of his many years on this fine earth, I'd be shocked to learn if he'd ever even laid eyes upon a child. That's how bad it was.
He used to say things to James like, "We're not progressing as fast as I hoped we would, Jimmy," and "Jimmy, it's imperative that you bend at the second knuckle."
I don't know about you, but I can spot about forty-seven problems with each of those statements. First, my kid was four, he didn't have the motor skills to bend at the second knuckle. Second, his name is James, not Jimmy. Third, this child doesn't even know what 'don't pee the bed' means, is he really supposed to be familiar with the definition of the word 'imperitive'? And so on and so forth.
But it was the name thing that really rubbed my kid the wrong way.
He'd be like, "My name es James, not Jimmy."
And the teacher would be all, "Okay Jimmy, let's take it from the top."
Honestly, I could feel the tension rise each and every time the teacher used the wrong name. Even the creepy portraits with the following eyes were more aware of the situation than the instructor was.
And then one day, it finally happened. Mr. Violinman told Jimmy to take two, and James cocked his arm back, paused, and violently stabbed the teacher square in his geriatric schnuts.
Apparently, it hurts just as much to get clonked in the gnads when you're eighty. Who knew?
We promptly packed up the violin case and never stepped foot in that dusty old studio ever again.
Today, while James and I were driving home from Dairy Queen, do you have any idea what the kid asked me?
He goes, "Mom, I'm pretty sure I want to be Jimmy. Or maybe Jim. Haven't really decided yet."
And I was like, "Whatever you want, buddy. Either way, I'll have Daddy wear his cup."