The WM Parenting Connection

by Marina DelVecchio

When I was little, my mother decided that I was going to play the violin in hopes that I would one day become a classical violinist. Music came easy for me. I understood it, I felt it, and I loved it, and if I had wanted to, I suppose I could have done something with it -- but I didn't. My mother's approach in getting me to practice was stifling and domineering, as was she. She walked into my room every evening, placed the baking timer on my desk, set it to fifteen minutes, and bid me to play until the high pitched shrill of the clock brought my playing to a sudden and cacophonous stop. She never stayed to listen to me; instead, she walked away from me, went into her room, and closed her door, shutting me and my music out. This was her way. And in my need to please her, to have her accept me, I continued to play long after I had begun to resent the violin and all her expectations of me. At the age of nine, I began to associate the violin as the means to an end -- if I played well enough, if I did as she instructed me to, I could get her to love me.

I played the violin for ten years, was accepted among the second strings of the Burrough and City Wide orchestra in New York, and even played in Carnegie Hall for Mayor Giuliani. But as good as this sounds, I wasn't. I was a sub-standard violinist who got by on 15 minutes of practicing a day to the endless ticking of my mother's expectations. Needless to say, I eventually failed in both. The violin sits in my kids' play room closet and has been silent for twenty years. Entombed in the dark recesses of its case, the bow is bent, the wood of the violin, unpolished and layered in dust, and the strings are loose or missing completely. It's locked up, unseen and unheard, a muted presence in the heart of my home, in the heart of my life, a symbol of the failure that comes with the pursuit of pleasing others.

A mother now, I believe that music is an integral part of the learning experience, and when my son turned six, I enrolled him in music school for piano lessons. Having a background in music theory and having played the piano for six years myself, I used to help him with his music homework. I stood behind him as he placed his fingers in the right positions, I counted aloud as he played so that he could keep the proper tempo, and I corrected him when he played the wrong notes. But the craziest thing started to happen: he felt the weight of my own expectations, carried them upon his small shoulders as he sat hunched in his seat, his fingers heavy with indecision as they rested upon the black and white keys. His eyes brimming with tears, he told me he didn't get it, he didn't want to play, he wanted me to leave him alone, he was done for the day. I responded with anger and a temper tantrum that equaled his own. And then it hit me: I was doing to him what my mother had done to me -- in different ways. I was on top of him, my disapproval etched in the frowning lines of my face, silent, but present. My mother had never stayed in the room with me because she did not know music, but her timer ticking away at my confidence and her facial expressions were all I ever needed to know that I was a disappointment. I didn't want that for my son.

I did not want my son to give up music and the piano, but I also did not want him to play against his will. Thus, I took myself out of the equation. He has a lesson once a week, and he practices every day if he has time. I don't set a baking timer to fifteen minutes, but I ask him to play one assigned piece a day, at least three times. I don't stand over him or near him, and I let him figure things out on his own with the understanding that if he needs help, I am only a few feet away, in another room. Sometimes I sit on the steps and listen to him, reveling in the fact that he is enjoying playing music. Without the pressure of my parental expectations smashing into his self-esteem, my son is excelling in piano. He holds concerts for us, playing a song he memorized without being asked to, while his sister dances. And he even goes to the piano when he is bored or has nothing better to do, playing something by heart or simply improvising. The other day, he even wrote me a song, and because he now loves sitting at the piano and playing, I know I have made the right decision. As parents, it is important to know when to let go -- to be aware of our expectations and how they affect our children.

When to Let Go Parental Expectations