The Muddy Muddy Middle

Triumph for Tim this morning in front of about 100 people at the talent show tryouts (American Idol at the Elementary School). He got up and set up his Cello, calmly cracking jokes with the judges like it was natural to interact with teachers while excruciatingly nervous and in front of a large group of peers. ("Yeah, there's a joke that says, 'A cello player came to practice, and by the time he set up, the practice was over.'")

Then, looking the judges in the eye, he said, "I'm going to play Rigadoon by Henry Purcell and my mom is going to accompany me." He proceeded to play the best performance of his life--sprightly tempo, no missed notes, great intonation. Normally a cello has a hard time competing with dancers, hula hoopers, magic acts, skateboarders, acrobats, etc., but Tim was hands down the most polished act of the morning. He rocked the tryouts.

Jump cut to Tim and me on a typical morning, afternoon, or weekend, in our usual exasperated fight over cello practice. He likes cello, he wants to practice, he's coming right away, just as soon as he finishes up the critical task of, oh, say, removing the lint from between his toes or lying on his bed contemplating what popcorn-type ceiling texture is made out of. Tired of having to physically drag him to practice sessions, I came within a hair of making him quit this fall. But he pleaded to continue, so the battle goes on.

And I call it a battle because it exhausts me, because I feel like I have fought when it is over, but with Tim there's no clear opposition. It's just endlessly pushing an inert object towards a distant goal. It's motherhood, I guess--the mind numbing repetition, the same tasks day after day, the monotony of getting up to do what I did yesterday and what I will do tomorrow, realizing that it is no easier to get him to practice today and it will be no easier tomorrow, realizing that we will work on little elements like his bow hold and his posture and see very little progress today, tomorrow, next week, or next year.

And then...today happens. And I watch that child, suddenly sparkling with confidence, with joy, with the knowledge that HE can really play, REALLY PLAY! That everyone knows it. A parent whispered as I left the gym, "He's got an incredible talent." I choked.

Yes, Tim won his Cello today, and I suspect the Cello won him, too, probably for life. And I won, in the way a mother always dreams of winning when she sets these little strategies in motion. But here's what motherhood is about--that the real triumph happened in the muddy middle, on that endless string of identical, impossible days when the original dream had faded to nothing and the exercise seemed pointless. The real triumph of motherhood lies, to paraphrase Jane Austen, in hanging on longest when all hope is gone.

Here's to happy endings, and long may we persevere in the muddy middle.