Musical Mother's Musings

When Good Advice Doesn't Work

"Say it once, and walk away."

It's great advice, given to those whose kids need to take responsibility for their own actions and, well, responsibilities!  Don't hound them, remind them, stand guard until they're actually working.  To do so sends the message that you don't really expect them to accomplish what you asked them to do, at least not without your overbearing help.

And it works--some of the time. 

For neuro-typicals, it would seem to be a successful tool.  Tell 'em once, or at most twice, then walk away and give them space to either accomplish, or reap consequences.

For a child the age of my son, with the additional burden of ADD, not so much.  This is where the lack of focus and attention show their true colors, and walking away will not necessarily leave a pricking conscience behind.

There are times it does work, and well.  But not today.  Today, he "can't" hear what I say, and when he does hear it doesn't register that I said anything in English!  If, by some chance, I align correctly with his aural input, then (it seems), the path in continues right on through to the path out the other ear!  (I say this with as much love and kindness as I possibly can, not to poke fun at his expense.)

Yet, today, as much as every other day, my son wants to be treated as a mature, competent individual.  If I send the same messages too often, or too close together, it's like friction to flint, too near dry tinder.  Right now, he's hiding in his room, stewing and angry because I "pushed" him to stay focused on practice.  Not that I "pushed" him to practice--he knows he needs to, and even wants to.  But the "zone" is out of sight, and my attempts to refocus him backfired.

Yet, when I said nothing, 30 minutes out of his 60 went by without any awareness of the passage of time.  After half the practice was over, I thought that, perhaps, a little "Mommy-help" might be useful.

Oh dear.  Part of the problem is that the consequences of poor (or non-existent) practice are too far down the road for him to see.  ADD minds see NOW, and only NOW.  As much as he loves his teachers, and enjoys performances, they are too distant to be an impetus.  Lesson? Yesterday--won't come for another week.  Recital? Two days ago, and not again for a while.  Practice?  Much more fun to doodle and noodle, look around, enjoy the snow that (was briefly falling) outside our window, or the squirrels chasing each other around the tree, or . . . or. . . or. . .

Intentions are great.  But we are now struggling with a classic symptom, and I'm struggling for answers.  Do I weigh in and guide?  Do I step back and give him space?  Do I (as I tried to do today) strive for a balance of the two?

I do know this--I must not, must not, must not get angry.  I cannot afford the cost of losing my temper, because then, the problem is not his, but mine.  I cannot (in spite of loving this child more than life itself) allow his problem to affect my emotional response.  [Note, I didn't say "my emotions," because I think it is impossible to see an issue without feeling it emotionally somehow.] I have to, under all circumstances, allow him to be himself, mistakes and all, and show him that love and behavior are entirely seperate things--his behavior will not cause me to love him less.

 

 

ADDmitting

Dear friends,

I am coming to the conclusion that this blog needs to take a different slant.  I've been focusing a lot on the issues of practicing with my son, while also being a home-school mom and musician.  That won't change.  But what I glossed over briefly back in October (or so), was my son's diagnosis of ADD.  The gloss came from fear.  

I think any mother is afraid of a permanent diagnosis of any type for her child.  Whether it's cancer (!), juvenile diabetes, speech impairment, blindness, spina bifida (my heart goes to a friend who is currently facing this with her newborn), or whatever the malady, there is a period of grief and discouragement that follows such a pronouncement.

Ours is only ADD.  Yes, I repeat, only.  My son can walk, talk, sing, hear, see, feel, control his own bodily functions, think, and love.  He can read, analyze, search out, learn, study, and make decisions.  He is intelligent and happy.  I am blessed.  

But as much as I would like to write off the diagnosis as something insignificant, I can't.  I am 1/3 of a family, and 2/3 work with ADD brains. All the time.  And, as a book I'm currently into points out, one of the most challenging relationships a person with ADD can attempt is with a perfectionist.  Right.  I have two, trying hard at keeping a relationship with me (and the reverse is every bit as true).

So, expect to hear a lot more about ADD.  If I don't acknowledge it, I can't grow.  If I refuse to count it into the equation, I am doing my son an injustice, expecting him to function the way I do.

Perhaps (and I would feel so blessed if this were the case), my struggles might be a comfort to some other mother out there who bears the mixed blessing of an incredibly talented child who cannot seem to channel his abilities; a mother who feels deceived by the conflict between the child's ability and actual behavior; a mother who is desperate for answers.  

Pray for me, that I may learn grace, courage and self-control, that patience and love may be my watchwords, that I might demonstrate to my son and my husband that first of all, they are valued and loved, just as they are.

 

My Journey, pt 5: Mission Accomplished

I'm home!  

The recital is done; all rehearsals, sectionals, demonstrations, and so forth are finished.  It's good to be home, and have the trip behind me.

For me, particularly, it was good to give the recital.  It went better than I had hoped--in fact, it went quite well! And, fears aside, giving a recital is an exercise every musician needs on a regular basis, just as every athelete benefits from competitions.  

Putting ourselves under a certain amount of pressure refines us, just as carbon under pressure becomes diamond.  The stuff is the same--the product is not.

This trip's goal was to raise awareness of At First Sight, and to raise money for scholarships.  I think both were successful.  I was able to meet and work with a lot of students (great kids, they are!), and we brought in enough to cover four scholarships!

Thanks to all of you who came to the recital--your support was uplifting.  

Thank you to all of you who donated--there will be students whose lives change because of your generosity.  

Thank you also, to the teachers who graciously gave me time with their students.  I truly enjoyed meeting and working with them.

And finally, thank you to the musicians who took time from their busy schedules to make music with me.  I'm honored and inspired.

 

My Journey, pt 4: Overcoming fears

Fear. We see it in our children more readily than in ourselves.  We can identify it in coworkers, friends, even passing acquaintances. But there is nothing more humbling than facing the monsters in your own closet.

I have dreamed of giving a recital for 10 years (the span of time since my last one, as a viola master's degree candidate in Boston).  I could give you fifty reasons why I should, why I want to, why it would be beneficial.  But as the time lengthened, so did the inertia.  

Now, 10 years later, I have committed to walking on stage tomorrow night and giving a public performance.  The fact that it is the same venue in which I gave my senior recital (and my junior recital, and my high-school graduation recital, and my eight-grade graduation recital) is both a comfort, and a detrement, for with memories come ghosts.

Now, I face those.  The ghosts of "what might have been" have their say at last.  "What might you have been, if you hadn't gone into teaching? if you hadn't quit to be a stay-home mom? if you hadn't decided to homeschool and forfeit all your free time to your son?"  "What might you have been if you had been faithful with your practice? kept up your studies?"  "What might have happened if you had been more dedicated? more focused? more disciplined?"  "What might have been if . . ."

Their second cousins, the Finger-pointers, are not far behind them.  In fact, they often come hand in hand.  "What might have been," morphs right into "But you didn't, so now you can't."  or "Because you did that instead, you really aren't good enough to do this."

And they want, expect, demand me to listen.

They want me to fear.

Shall I?  Shall I count the cost, reckon the loss, tally up the difference between where I am, and where I "ought to be"?

No.  [I say this with firmness born of decision, not of feeling.]

No.  In order to make music, I can have no fear.  None.  Not any.  One fear spoils the music just as surely as one fly spoils the ointment.  

I must approach tomorrow's performance with courage, and with "selective amnesia," remembering only the good, the beautiful, the lovely.

It seems that even the apostle Paul had words of advice for such a time: Whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things. (Philippians 4:8)

My mind wanders while I play.  I do find myself thinking of other things as the music is unfolding.  And if I allow myself to think about past mistakes, past failures, past discomforts, embarrasements, or self-conscious moments, I am drawn down, away from the music and into misery.  My performance suffers, serving to reinforce the negative I was already pondering.

Instead, I must discipline my mind to dismiss immediately such frowning judges, banishing them completely, and welcoming in their place images of beauty, kindness, joy, peace, gentleness.

Overcoming fear is not permanent, but each success strengthens the heart and infuses the senses with satisfaction and relief.  Overcoming fear is not immediate, but the effort pays rich dividends.  Overcoming fear is personal, hidden, unobservable (usually) to all but the most sensitive observer.

If you are in the audience tomorrow night, I hope you will see no evidence of fear.  I pray that instead, you will see in me, and hear in the music, visions of loveliness, of happiness, of value and quality, of industry and achievement, of dreams coming true and hopes realized.

Tomorrow evening, I will grow.  

 

 

------

P.S.  The picture today is of a children's book which tackles this very topic.  The author, Gladys Scheffrin-Falk, has faced her own fears as a violinist, and found joy therein.

My Journey, part 3: Brighten the Corner Where You Are

I did not plan this trip.   Frankly, I'm not even sure it was my idea.  In fact, I'm still amazed at how this trip came about, and even more amazed at how it is turning out.

In January, the board of AFS decided we needed to do some on-site advertising.  Two weeks later, I had a ticket, for an incredibly low price, directly into Chattanooga (usually I have to fly to Nashville or Atlanta, or pay five prices).  I didn't know what I would do when I arrived, but I was going.  Oh, and we set a recital date.  On faith--that I could be ready in one month!! (Jury's still out on that--come Monday night and see if we succeeded!)

When I began to make contacts, I asked if I could be of any help to the teachers.  My goal was to benefit their programs.  My pay was to meet the students, and have permission to advertise for At First Sight.  I soon discovered that not only could I meet with the students I wanted to see, but I could help, by subbing for a couple of rehearsals in a very busy season.  

Then, three days before I flew out, I learned that plans on the ground had changed again, and I would be needed to fill in as clinician for a regional music festival--the whole thing, not just a rehearsal!

I couldn't have planned it.  I had no idea.  I'm humbled, and truly grateful, that this trip (which seemed so extravagant to begin with) has become a way to bless others.  

Today, I had the immense pleasure of working with the first and second violinists of the SAU Symphony Orchestra.  Their conductor, Mrs. Laurie Minner, is a marvelous musician, positive and encouraging, while demanding complete attention to making the music.  The work was Brahms Symphony No. 2.  Our task was to take the ugly, difficult spots and make them shine.

If you've ever played an instrument, you know that coordinating all the muscles and actions to create beauty isn't automatic--far from it.  It takes concentrated effort and [gasp] practice.

Now, give those difficult spots to 20 young musicians, and expect them to play perfectly in tune with each other, at exactly the same time, with the same articulations and dynamics, and you realize the challenge that orchestral musicians face.   We had 75 minutes to work together, and did we ever work!  It was such a pleasure to give them tools with which to succeed, to point out where they were already succeeding, and to help them hear where they could do better.  I really enjoyed the effort with which these young people worked, the attitude of determination, the politeness, the smiles of achievement and recognition.  I asked a lot of them, and never once did I hear a sour comment, a groan, or a complaint.  

I came into the experience hoping to brighten their corner a little.  I pray that I did.  

What I didn't expect, truly, was how much they brightened mine!  I recieved from them respect, concentration, dedication.  They gave me appreciation and honored me with their time and attention.  I came from the rehearsal feeling that I had been the one blessed, by the gift of their time and talents, and that we had mutually grown.

What a marvelous experience.  I came to brighten, and left brighter than before.  Isn't that the way our world should work?

 

My Journey, pt 2: Of Practice in Unusual Places

Stuck in Dallas, with a 2.5 hour layover. I had plenty to do, but I really wanted to practice.   I have a recital one week from tonight, and so much to improve between now and then.  My fingers were already feeling a bit stiff, and  my instrument, nestled next to me, was begging to be let out of its case, like a puppy out of a cage. "Take me out--play me," it begged.  Here??  In public??!

Well, I did it.  I found a quiet, out of the way spot in the Dallas/Fort Worth International aiport, pulled out my violin case, and practiced!  It’s so unlike me.  I’m your classic introvert (although I fooled people, sometimes).  I don’t like to make waves, to be noticed, to be a nuisance.  

I asked first.  There were a couple of TSA officials on break, and I asked if they thought anyone would mind--they thought I was a bit crazy.  But after extracting a promise that they would tell me if I was being a bother, I went through with it.  (Anyone else done anything like this?)

I’m really glad I did.  I chose the entry to a gate that looked like it was out of service.  But just as I was getting my violin out, a young airline attendant in uniform came through, parked the wheelchair he was pushing, and sat down in it.  He was waiting for the next flight to arrive--at that gate.  “10 minutes or so,” he said.  I asked if he would mind, and he answered, “Of course not!  Please, go ahead.”  So I did.

Brahms Violin Sonata No. 1 in G major, 1st movement (without the partner  piano).  An attempt to be soft (I forgot my practice mute at home--really wish I hadn’t.)  At first, the young attendant was preoccupied with the ubiquitous cell phone.  I worked by memory until I got stuck, not paying much attention to him.  But as I glanced over, I realized he wasn’t tied to the tiny black box any more.  He seemed to be gazing out of the window, lost in thought.   In fact, he appeared to be listening intently.

My memory failed me, and I had to stop to retrieve the printed music from my case.  “You’re really good,” he volunteered.  Went on to say that his little sister, age 9, has just started taking violin lessons from a local teacher.  "She's really good."  His dad wanted him to take up an instrument, but he always refused.  Now, in his early 20's (I’m guessing), he was starting to regret that decision..

After I finished the movement, we talked for a few minutes.  I told him about why I was practicing, where I was headed, about At First Sight, and Chamber Music Weekend, how long they have been running, and how much I enjoy them.   He told me he wished he had taken up an instrument, and that he hoped his sister would succeed.  We talked about not letting fear get in your way, or failure, either.  Of persisting, even when it's difficult.  Of doing things because of beauty.

He went on to say, “You obviously have a passion for this.  That’s so great to see.  It’s so important.”

- -pause- - -

Thank you, sir.  I don’t know who you are, and you don’t know who I am.  You also have no idea how afraid I’ve been to make this journey.  But I do have a passion.  I’ve been given a passion for people and for music, and the opportunities to make good on that passion.  I’m humbled by the reminder that many people haven’t had those choices, those possibilities, those chances; by the impact my passion can have on others.

As I put my violin back into its case, I thanked him for being my audience.  “My pleasure,” he responded.  “I loved it--it was, like, my Valentine’s date!”

My Journey, part 1: I'm On My Way!

I’m on my way to Collegedale!

For what? Why is it a big deal? (First, because it's home.  My parents live there, and  Collegedale is where I grew up.  Moving away doesn't change "home.")

Second, because every summer we (my family and I) converge on Collegedale to run not 1, but 2 music festivals.  And this trip has much to do with that fact.

15 years ago, my mother said to me, “If you create it, they will come.” She was referring to a dream I had for creating a chamber music retreat, a meeting of musical friends that would refresh, renew, and rejuvenate us through making music together.

Chamber Music Weekend was born, that summer. It’s still going strong, and any of you reading this who think you might want to come, please do!  More than 40 musicians gorging themselves on chamber music for 10 hours a day for four days--it's a real party!

After a while, CMW grew so strong that we had to create a second event, for students. That began four years ago, and is the heart-child we call “At First Sight.”  The program has been fantastic every summer, with a dynamic staff and marvelous students. . .but not enough of them.   Because of a number of factors, AFS hasn’t grown as rapidly as we have planned, so this week, I’m flying to Chattanooga to help advertise in person.

I’ll be visiting six schools and ensembles, working with a conference-wide string festival, passing out AFS postcards, and spreading the word any way I can. I’m a little nervous. I don’t make trips alone very often. I like to fly--but I get nervous being in strange places.  

Many, many pieces have fallen into this puzzle without my instigation, and I feel strongly that there is Divine plan behind it. That adds to my feeling of insecurity--am I up to the responsibilities that God has for me, and for this trip? It seems like a bigger picture than I can get my mind around.

Nonetheless, off I go. It’s a trip I'm nervous about, and one I’ve dreamed of, both.   It’ll be busy, tiring, and likely, very rewarding.  I'll get to share something I'm excited about, and give personal invitations to fantastic kids to make music with me and my marvelous staff this summer.  It's all good.

 P.S. At the end of my adventure, on Monday, February 20 I’ll be giving a recital, along with my father and two of my good musical friends. It’s in Ackerman Auditorium, on the campus of Southern Adventist University, at 8:00 p.m. If you’re anywhere in the area, I’d be honored to have you there.

"Love is Proved in the Letting Go"

Sometimes one feels conspired against.  Quotes and thoughts on the same topic have been sneaking in at me from all directions!

This morning's reading from my current book, Have a New Kid by Friday, by Dr. Kevin Leman, was all about letting go and walking away.  No arguments, no explanations, no tolerating sass and disrespect.  Simply "say it once, and walk away."  

That's not an easy answer, because, in our rearview vision, we still see the child doing exactly what we didn't want.  For me, right this moment, that's knowing that even though my son got his cello out and tuned it, that was over 5 minutes ago, and he's likely off doing something completely unrelated right now, instead of practicing.  But, I've said it once (and even, once, comiserated that practice isn't always fun), and walked away.  Now it's in his court.  (Hmmm. . .do I hear the strains of Vivaldi wafting down the stairs?)

Staring me in the face from the bookshelf are the titles of two other parenting help-books: Change Your Child's Behavior by Changing Yours, and Scream-Free Parenting (the subtitle of which reads: Raising Your Kids by Keeping Your Cool).  Oh, and what about that lovely article on French parenting I referenced a couple of posts ago?  One of the chief points that caught my attention was that French parents (in general) aren't afraid to parent.  

What do they all share in common?  A strong emphasis on the parent being a whole person, in control of themselves, and willing to allow the child to reap appropriate consequencese.  And only a parent in control of themselves can walk away, to allow the child to find out the consequences if they so choose.

Scream-free's approach:  The only way to retain a position of influence with our children is to regain a position of control over ourselves. 

[and in a section entitled "Throwing Down the Gauntlet". . .]  

Your child is testing you to see that you are stable and consistent.  And he wants you to pass.

From Change Your Child's Behavior:  You can avoid much of this [battles of wills, etc] if you understand that as the adult in the home, you must be in charge--not only of making sure your child is growing up in a loving, supportive environment, but of your reactions to each and every situation parenting brings.  

And from a classic, and one of my favorite parenting books, Between Parent and Child, by Dr. Haim Ginott, we read: When handled without excessive emotion, many discipline situations dissolve.  When handled hysterically, they may become serious problems to plague the parent and the child for years to come.

In all of these books, I find similar bits of advice, for parents to keep cool, by giving instructions once and then backing off.  Don't force the issue--let the consequences teach.  Don't yell, plead, remind, bribe or cajole.  Stay calm, stay emotionally cool, and let life teach the lesson. 

In practice this is REALLY important.  At a younger age (say, 4 through 7 or 8), the parent can't just say "go practice."  The child really needs the parent to help, in order to learn how to practice.  But there comes a time when it is the child's responsibility to at least get the instrument out, find the music, and start the work.  That's the point at which balking often happens, and now, we need the above advice far more than ever before.  It is now the child's job.  The parent has to back off, and let the child become responsible for his own actions.

Say it once, and walk away.

If we hover until the child finally starts practice, if we remind, cajole, plead, we are sending the message that "even though I asked you to do something, I don't really believe you can and will.  I believe you aren't capable, and/or I expect you to misbehave."  Do we really want to send that message?  They will never, under those circumstances, become self-starters, and we will always dread the battle.

Far better to set the consequences in our own hearts (no need to spell them out up front, because that gives the child the option of choosing the consequence consciously!).  Set, and keep.  

No practice? No free time.  

No practice? No TV.  

No practice?  No visit to your friend's house.  Period.  Plain and simple.  No anxiety.

Say it once, and walk away.

This morning's post from Scream-Free Institute shared a quote by Irish Poet Robert Cecil Day-Lewis:

        "How selfhood begins with a walking away, and love is proved in the letting go."

Math Wars

My son is fighting me over math again.  It all started with Saxon, four years ago.  He hated Saxon.  He fought it tooth and nail, if need be, but more often by sit-down strikes.  Math became, over the next two years, a real battleground.  

Well, he's growing up.  He doesn't fight quite the same way any more. And we've tried several different math curricula, in an effort to bridget the gap.  Now he's fighting me again.   This time, however, it's very different--he's actually fighting to get the book from me, because he wants to do more!!

I suspect you think I'm exaggerating.  I'm not.  Any.  This morning he finished Life of Fred Book 5, "Edgewood".  When I told him math class was done, he literally tried to grab the next book out of my hands, because he wanted to keep going!

What made the difference?  The method.  I happen to think Fred is a little odd, quite scattered, and very "out of the box" for a math method.  But for my son, that's exactly what he needs.  The typical "kill and drill" simply doesn't work for him (unless it's Khan Academy, where he can rack up hundreds of points for doing online drills).  

My point?  That sometimes the method needs to match the child.  If it doesn't, the resulting agony may defeat the purpose of the activity entirely! 

How does this relate to practice?  Well, there really are a hundred ways to "skin a cat," and if one way isn't working, it's worth trying to find another.   Say we need to drill a shift.  For me, it's easy.  Identify the shift, play it slowly until it's accurate and clean, lather, rinse, repeat at faster speeds.

For my son? That works once in a fortnight or so.  For him, we need other ways, like varying the tone each time he repeats it, counting beads (or pennies or mini-marshmallows) for each time done right (and I get one for each time not accurate!), imagining a beloved teacher or famous musician listening, or better yet, pretending to be that famous musician!

How do I know what to do?  Trial and error, and reading tips from other teachers and parents who have been there.  Mostly, though, being willing to let go of the tried and true, even in the midst of battle, and reach for something that just might turn the tide of war in our favor!

It's the Tone of Voice

How many ways can you say, "No"?  I bet you can come up with plenty right now, sitting sedately in front of your computer.  Sweetly, calmly, firmly but kindly, sternly. . .

How many ways can you say, "No", when your toddler is escaping for the fifth time, this time without clothes? or when the teenager wants to stay out till midnight on a school night, or when your grade-schooler slams the door in your face?

It's so hard to control my voice.  I can mean one thing by my words, but inflect the exact opposite by my tone--before I even notice it!  I'm not a great actor, in the realm of disguising my true emotions, and I suspect none of us really is, either.

I read an article this evening about French parenting.  It's a bit long, but contains some very interesting points about the different American and French parental viewpoints.  We Americans aren't doing so well overall, with children who run us ragged, and sass at the drop of a hat.  The French parents the author interviewed didn't seem to struggle nearly as much with child "mutiny," and the reason, she suggests, is the tone of voice.

There's an authority to the tone which can say, "I make the rules here," or "I will have no nonsense or disrespect, because I simply expect the best of you."  It's not a tone of disapproval (which I exercise far too often), or a tone of indecisiveness.  It's not a tone of anger or harshness, shame or belittling.  It's a tone which simply states what the perameters are.  "Here is the line, and it won't move."

Often, I hear parents say to me, "I can't get her to practice.  She doesn't want to do it."

My first response? Genuine sympathy!  I've been there, and I expect to visit regularly for a number of years, yet.  My son, age 9.5 (going on 15), loves music, and swings wildly from loving practice (when there's something new to work on) to hating practice (for any number of reasons).  And IF there is a parent reading this who has never struggled even once with a child who didn't want to practice, please enlighten all of us as to how you did it!

My second response? To liken the practice to any other less-than-favorite chore or activity, or even to eating a good-for-you food that the child dislikes.  Is it child abuse to insist he should eat his spinach? No. Is it harsh and forceful to make a child take out the trash? No.  Is it wrong to expect a child to do his homework or clean his room? Not at all.  So is it mean to expect the child to practice when it's time? No.

Somehow, because we want the child to love music, we feel that practicing is in a different category.  We fear that if we insist, the child will grow up hating music, and develop a twisted, darkened character.  And so, we retreat into pleading, bribing, requesting, making games, all to interest the child in doing something that is an expected responsibility, just like chores or homework.  In fact, in case no one has ever said it quite this way, practicing is a musician's homework.

So what does this have to do with tone of voice?  Read the article, and I think you'll see that how we communicate with our children on the subject of practice says much more than the actual words we use.  They may not "want" to practice, but they do, under it all, want you to be consistent and firm about what's expected.  Not harsh, not judgemental, but firm.  

Take charge.  Be "the mom."  Insist gently, but firmly.  And don't apologize for being what God has granted you the privilege and honor of being.