The Bun is six, which is never easy, but she seems to be suffering from sixness more than average. I can’t remember how it all came to a head, but the SuperHusband and I agreed we needed to take drastic action. Child would be sent to either Piano or Karate.
Piano won for a whole host of reasons. But wow: Expensive. (More so because for part of that host of reasons, we opted to go with Not the Cheapest Teacher. Even though said teacher tells me we are getting a parishioner discount. I don’t want to know what full retail is.) Apparently I have been massively spoiled by our super-bargain activities up to now.
So the deal is, and it all fits with the Addressing the Sixness action plan, that the Bun will clean up the trash in our yard once a week, thereby earning $1. And she will put that money in an envelope and give it to her teacher, and we will pay the balance of her tuition. Her teacher is thrilled. (Yay teacher! This is why we picked you. Plus you are a good musician, that didn’t hurt either.) The children have pointed out:
- It is hardly any money at all.
- We, the parents, are paying her that money.
- Which she then gives back to us.
- So how exactly does that help?
The mother silenced this questioning from the masses with pointed observations about her powers to tax, commandeer, and empress.
But the mother feels this way herself. Not towards the Bun. We are extremely happy with the piano plan all around. Our yard is cleaner (yay!); our six year old has two different fronts on which she is developing confidence, skill, and self-discipline; and she has a sense of ownership over her lessons. She helped pay for it with her own labor. It is valuable.
No. The mother feels this way towards God.
The Bun correctly observes that her contribution is very, very little. My contribution to the work of Jesus? Very, very, very little. (Technically: Even littler than that.) Plus the other similarities: Everything I do give came from Him anyway. And He has to hound me even more relentlessly than I have to supervise the piano-player. And He’s perfectly capable of taking care of the entire universe Himself, so what use am I anyway?
And this is a great consolation. Our era is awash with talk of greatness. Jesus isn’t asking me to be great. He knows I can’t be great. He knows the size of the problem — our whole fallen world. He knows that He has to carry the load. But He’ll let me help him, if I’m willing. He’ll let me really help, and it will be good for me, and it will be the amount that is the size for me.
So that’s what I’m thinking about lately. Being more like the Bun. I like it.
Beautiful. So much I never ‘got’ about our faith, from how ‘mean’ God seemed in the OT to ‘how little I can really do in the grand scheme of things, so why does God make me bother when He can just snap His fingers?’, so much now makes sense now that I’ve been a parent of multiple, squabbling kids.
🙂
Yes. Every single thing I say to my kids, is God talking to me.
(Well, okay, not the part where I yell “leave me alone until I’ve had my coffee!!”. But the other stuff.)
“Sixpence none the richer” and all that. . . .
A few weeks ago, I was playing the piano for the first time since I got out of the hospital, and thus the first time since just before Christmas, and Gi came in the room. I forget how it got started, but I decided that a) she’s seven (once Al reached seven, I started to feel old–when people ask how old she is, I say, “Seven,” and she says, “DADDY! I’m *nine*!” and I’m like, “Already???”) So I forget how old they’re getting. But I’d tried giving Allie formal piano lessons when she was 5, and Gianna was taking gymnastics at 3, and then we fell out of that stuff due to funding issues and scheduling and all that.
2. Gianna can *see*. My own frustrations with music growing up pertained to the fact that it was difficult to make out the notes, and music was one of the things that changed for me when I got trifocals at 20. So while I’ve tried to get Allie to take up music, like with most of her studies, I can’t help but think, “the poor kid is blind in one eye,” and I don’t push her.
3. Gianna does not have ADHD. She has a horrible work ethic, and the pigheadedness that all my kids inherited from their parents, but she’s not ADHD; she’s more obsessive.
I guess it started with singing, since she’s got a good voice and good taste. I started trying to get her singing refined and thought, “She has none of the drawbacks I’ve encountered trying to teach Allie to play the piano.”
So I started giving her lessons. On the second or third day, Mary called out from the masterbedroom/home office, “THANKS FOR FINALLY DOING WHAT I MARRIED YOU FOR!”
That is hilarious. I love you guys.