Grilled Cheese and Gershwin
-Rebecca
Rine
There’s no
tangible gauge for how well you’re doing as a parent—no meter that points to Awesome or You’ve Got to be Kidding Me and no bumper sticker that asks How’s my driving? accompanied with a
1-800 number.
I was
recently listening to Gershwin’s An American
in Paris at the dinner table with my 5- and 3-year olds. I cranked it up as the various instruments
made their way into the mix, thinking this would be a great time to sneak in a
music lesson. My kids nibbled on their
grilled cheese, slurped their milk, and wiped their mouths on their sleeves
even though I hound them daily not to do so. I pointed out the bassoon, and we
all agreed it sort of sounds like a duck. I taught them the word legato when the music was smooth.
They stood
up on their chairs and began to sway their heads and raise their greasy hands to
conduct the music, and emotion swelled up in my throat. I made my way to the
kitchen where I wept, and I wasn’t even sure why. The beauty of this Gershwin piece has always
moved me, but come on, crying? As I muffled my cries in a dirty dish towel
next to a sink full of dishes, the reason occurred to me.
Time paused,
and my life came into precision focus. I’m often paralyzed by the unknown of
the future and whether I’m raising my kids well enough to become strong adults,
but while listening to classical music and watching them, I realized THIS is
it. This grilled cheese, Gershwin and
greasy fingers is IT. These days aren’t merely space fillers until they walk
down the aisle with cap and gown. These
seemingly ordinary snippets of life are just that—life. This is the
performance. The endless questions, the building of forts, the telling of
knock-knock jokes that make no sense at all—these are the glorious imperfect masterpieces
that are shaping who they are and will be.
Perhaps the
sheer pressure of that added to my weeping.
I hit sour
notes all the time in motherhood and take shortcuts when I wish I had more time
to reach perfection, but my kids seem to be forgiving of these flaws in my
performance. One day they might find themselves making grilled cheese for the
twelve thousandth time for their kids and it will occur to them—Yikes, this isn’t easy. Then they will have seen behind the curtain where
the self-doubting, thankless guesswork of parenting lurks that comes with no
guarantees. Maybe then they will look back with wisdom and thank me, and I will
whole- heartedly answer, “It was my pleasure.”