The Piano Guys Made My Daughter Cry and It. Was. Magical.

Shortly after Cyra started taking violin lessons last year (her school offers a Strings Alive program so for a nominal $10 fee she gets weekly lessons and a violin to borrow) she was searching for violin videos on YouTube and she discovered The Piano Guys. If you have never heard of them, please stop reading right now and go check out a couple of their videos. This one is Cyra’s favorite or this one or maybe this one…heck pretty much any and all of their videos could qualify as her favorite! It just depends on her mood that day. Anyway, go click some links, I’ll be here when you get back.

We good? Did you check them out? Amazing, right?

Anyway, for months Cyra would watch theses videos daily. She began to talk about learning to play the cello.

“I bet I could learn cello easily now that I know violin,” she’d tell us.

She talked about cello so much it broke my heart because at the time I was still unemployed and we couldn’t afford lessons much less a $600+ beginner’s cello. Nonstop all through the winter, through the holidays, and well into spring we heard about cellos and The Piano Guys.

In early spring, The Piano Guys announced their upcoming US tour and Cyra nearly jumped out of her skin when she saw that they would be playing the Florida Theater in Jacksonville, a mere 40 minutes away. Still unemployed, I told Cyra that we really couldn’t afford the tickets, but really, I knew that I would save every penny I could to get her there even if it meant doing without Internet, power, or skimping on groceries for a few weeks.

But with gainful employment comes financial wiggle room and after I’d gotten a few paychecks into the bank, I told Scott I was buying tickets. That was in May. Coincidentally, the scheduled stop in Jacksonville fell just a few days before Cyra’s birthday.

Perfect timing. She’d be thrilled with her birthday gift.

All that spring and summer Cyra talked about cello lessons. And the more she talked the more Scott and I really started playing with the budget to see if it was possible. I priced cellos online, I looked around town for a music store that offered cello lessons.

This wasn’t a passing fancy for her. Cello was her dream.

When school started in August, her music teacher told Cyra that she might not have returning students join the Strings Alive program. Cyra came home devastated. Violin, you see, was her gateway to cello. She knew that if she couldn’t take cello lessons then at least she would still get the practice with a string instrument.

That same day, I emailed the one store in town that offered cello lessons. A few phone calls later, Cyra had a meeting with the instructor, an older gentleman whose preferred instrument was the cello. He was thrilled that such a young girl would be interested in cello.

When we went to meet him, he measured her to see what size cello she would need and watching her touch and hold a cello for the first time cinched the deal for me. Her smile just about engulfed her face and she couldn’t stop trembling.

“If I made a down payment, would you be able to let me make payments?” I asked the instructor softly as I stared at Cyra pulling the bow across the strings.

“Absolutely,” he said.

“Done. Let’s do it,” I said.

Cyra looked up at me, tears welling in her eyes. “Really?”

I nodded. “For really.”

I came home with a cello that barely fit in my car, weekly lessons that worked with my work schedule, and a little girl in complete shock.

(And now I do something that I don't often do: post photos of the girls. But today I feel it is important for the story.)

Cyra and her cello, first day home. Possessive doesn't even cover it.

First time practicing before lessons had even started. By the end of the first evening home, she had a reasonable sounding Twinkle Twinkle going. All that violin work really helped!

Let’s return the The Piano Guys.

Around the end of September, Cyra once again asked me if we could go to the concert. I looked her dead in the eye and I lied to my child. Lied through my teeth knowing that what I was about to tell her would sadden her.

“I’m so sorry sweetie,” I said softly, “With Ashleigh’s wisdom teeth and buying the cello…we just don’t have the money for it.”

Her face fell a little, “I understand, Mommy. It’s okay.”

And not another word was mentioned. Until yesterday.

Yesterday, the day of the concert, Cyra came home, scuffing her feet, frowning, and irritated.

“What’s wrong sweetheart?” I asked as she sat on my lap and wrapped her arms around me.

“I had a rough day, Mom,” she sighed.

I nodded sympathetically as she told me about her day. “Sounds like you could use something to cheer you up.”

She nodded. “Maybe a nap too.”

I laughed, “You’re that tired?”

Another nod.

“Well, maybe this will help.” I grabbed the envelope that held the tickets for over 6 months.

She raised her eyebrow at me.

“Open it up.”

She pulled out the printed tickets and scanned over it without really seeing it.

I pointed to the top, a small gray rectangle with the concert information. "Read in here,” I told her.

She read.

She looked at me.

She read it again.

“Mommy, I think you better cover your ears because I am about to squee like I have never squeed before.”

She jumped off my lap, jumped around the living, the walls echoing her squees of joy.

At the Florida Theater, after buying $70+ of merchandise, including a book of sheet music, Cyra, Ashleigh, and I sat quietly as the house lights fell dark. Cyra took a deep, calming breath as The Piano Guys walked onto the stage.

It. Was. Magical.

The first three songs, Cyra cried. Tears of happiness and joy streamed down her face and her quiet snuffles made me wish I had brought some tissues. Ashleigh and I couldn’t stop smiling.

These guys put on a great show! Aside from the music, which is phenomenal, they were personable, humorous, and humble. Sprinkled throughout the show the guys talked about their background together and the piano player, Jon Schmidt kept telling the audience that Steven Sharpe Nelson was the number one cellist in the world. And while I absolutely loved the show, the best part was watching Cyra’s reactions: amazement, admiration, hero worship.

Afterward, I told Cyra we could hang out in the lobby to see if they’d come out for autographs. She about fell over.

We waited in the lobby for a good 45 minutes. After most of the crowd cleared out and there were only about 30 people left in the lobby, the security guys had us line up.

And then, there they were. Cyra, who had been containing her excitement as best she could earlier, broke into a jittery dance and tears welled up again. As the line moved forward, Ashleigh and I tried to keep her calm.

“Can’t blame her,” Ashleigh said, “I would totally be fangirling as hard if I was meeting someone I really liked,”

Then it was her turn. And surprisingly she stayed put together.

“You’re going to need the table,” she told them as she handed over her items for signing.

The guys were gracious, polite, and asked her all sorts of questions.

“Do you play an instrument?” Jon, the piano player, asked.

“Yes,” she replied, “The cello.”

“You are my favorite person so far tonight,” Steven, the cellist, replied. Apparently, everyone they had met had claimed the piano as the instrument of choice. “How long have you been playing.”

“I just started this year,” she paused. “Because of you.”

“Wow. That’s fantastic!”

I swear he was flabbergasted.

“Did you name your cello?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Did you name it Steve?” Jon Schmidt asked.

“No, Agent Romanoff.”

“Whoa. That’s a serious name.” The guys laughed.

Cyra nodded.

“When I grow up,” Cyra said shyly, “I’m going to be right up there with you,” she looked at Steven, “I’ll be the second best cellist.”

Steven looked down at her with a smile, “No. You be the number one cellist. I’ll be second.”

Oh. My. Heart. It pretty much exploded.

Pictures all around and then our turn was over and once again Cyra could not keep the joy contained and she burst into tears again. She was floating as we walked back to the car.

“Best day?” I asked her.

“Best. Day. Ever,” she said through her tears.

From left to right: Al Van Der Beek, Steven Sharp Nelson, Cyra, Jon Schmidt, Paul Anderson

I is for Itchy Feet

I’ve written about my itchy feet before. And no, I do not have a rash or a fungus. What I have is an innate desire to travel and see the world. If I could, I’d buy an RV, a boat, a plane and I would never stay in one spot for too long.

Maybe it’s a habit formed from a childhood of relocation. We weren’t a military family yet it seemed every few years or so we’d pack and go. Granted, for the most part all the moves were in the same town, but when I finally moved out on my own I continued the tradition. Every three years we’d rent a truck and take off to the next house.

The longest we stayed in one place was six years and by the end of that time my feet were so itchy I could barely stand still! One of my favorite lines from any song goes” It’s time to move on, it’s time to get going, cause under my feet, the grass is growing.” This Tom Petty song captures exactly how I feel.

I like having a place to call my own, don’t get me wrong, but I’d be just as happy to call an RV or a boat home as I would a house.

Itchy Feet is an idiom/slang term used to express a strong desire to move or travel.

Example: Ivan and Ivanna’s interest in islands intrigued them and invoked intense itchy feet.

This post has been brought to you by the Letter I and the fine folks at Blogging A to Z. And by the number 492. Check out more A to Z blogs here!

Photo A Day - Night

The night holds mysteries and intrigue. It is under the cover of darkness that spies and lovers meet, when our wildest dreams are played, like a movie, across our minds. I've been a night owl for as long as I can remember. My brother Karl, the amateur astronomer, would show me the stars through his telescope pointing out planets and constellations. One of my most vivid memories is standing outside with him near the edge of the lawn as he focused his telescope on Halley's comet. Seeing this amazing comet, knowing that I would probably never get to see it again was beyond awe-inspiring. The wonder and joy of the universe that Karl instilled in me when I was a pesky younger sister, is one that I hope I instill in my girls when I set up our telescope and show them the moons of Jupiter and a faint smudge that is a whole other galaxy.

My favorite part of night, just as the sun falls below the horizon casting the sky into red and orange. Also, blinding the oncoming traffic was kind-of fun!

Ashleigh took this photo as the moon swept behind the trees. I love how the leaves have little halos around them.

I snapped this on Halloween night while we were trick-or-treating.

Big Dream One: The RV Life

I’ve always been a big dreamer. I set my sights on goals that are almost unattainable like winning the lottery despite never actually playing the lotto. I dream of sailing around the world in my custom built 60 foot sailboat, The Hyperbole, despite the fact that I get seasick just looking at a boat. I dream of thru-hiking the Appalachian Trail despite my overwhelming fears of aliens, sasquatch, and alien sasquatch. I dream of opening a gaming shop with my husband even though we’d end up strangling each other after the first day or two. I dream of a bakery with Sara even though she isn’t nearby.

I dream Big Dreams.

Two of the most diametrically opposite Big Dreams have been at the forefront lately. One stems from my love of travel and sightseeing, the other from my growing desire to be self-sufficient. A third Big Dream is really the most realistic it's just a matter of pushing myself. 

Today I’m going to talk about Big Dream Number One.

Before I met Sara, home to me was a place. A single location where roots were set down and bonds formed in the community. Home was a tangible, unique space. Growing up, I moved around a lot. Maybe not more than a military family, but it seemed every few years we were up and going somewhere else. I hated it. I wanted a place that was ours and we’d never have to leave. Sara, however, taught me that home wasn’t a place and roots could be transplanted quite easily. Home is my family: Scott and the girls. If I’ve got them, then I’m good. It doesn’t matter where we live. I’m sure I would have figured this out eventually, but Sara, being awesome, helped speed the process up.

The longest I’ve ever stayed in one house was six years. It seems that maybe all that moving around in my youth stuck with me and I get itchy feet every three years or so. There’s a Tom Petty song I love, Time To Move On, and I am fairly certain he meant it to be my theme song because I always have this need to just go. 

Dream Number One would help to alleviate those feet. If I had any assets to liquidate, I would do so immediately, buy an RV (I really like this one and this one) and take to the road. I would love to travel the back roads with the girls and Scott exploring every nook and cranny this country has to offer. How cliché, right? But how very cool would it be to wake up in the morning and say, “Hey, let’s go check out Montana” and just go? How freeing is that? Today I feel like…New Mexico…Next week, how about Ohio?

If I RV’d my life I would certainly have to make some major changes. And maybe they’d be for the best. The appealing idea here is that not only would I get to travel the country, but I would have to, by the very nature of living in an RV, downsize my life. Go minimalist. I am the first to confess an attachment to my stuff: books, craft supplies, gaming supplies, bakeware, all my Christmas decorations! Gack! Just thinking about not putting my Santas out on display makes me squirm in my guts. But like wiping a blackboard clean, there is something very appealing about getting rid of everything. I’m not anywhere close to being a hoarder. I’ve seen true hoarding and trust me, it keeps me in check! And surely anything that I could not bring myself to part with would find a home in storage until I needed it again.

Maybe after a few years or so driving the road, I’d yearn to plant myself firmly in one spot.

A Funk Explained.

Before I even push back the covers and sit up, I know that my period has started. In the bathroom, I confirm it, slightly pink-tinged underwear and blood on the tissue.

I start to cry as I wash my hands.

Scott calls through the door, “You okay?”

I’ve woken him with my tears.

“Fine,” I sniffle, “I’m taking a shower.”

“Alright.” A moment’s pause and then, “You need a towel?”

I nod, knowing he can’t see me but not trusting my ability to talk without crying more. I know the pause was his sleep clouded head registering why I am taking a shower. I never take a shower first except on days when I have my period.

I turn the water on and steam soon fills the small room. Scott taps on the door just as I pull the shower curtain closed shutting me into my own private space. The door opens a crack and without him saying anything, I know he is hanging a clean towel on the rack for me. He pushes the door shut with a soft click as he leaves.

In the shower the hot water beats on my back and I let the sobs I was denying take over. My eyes sting and I can’t seem to catch my breath; I gasp and lean against the tiles letting the water wash the tears from my face. I know that if Scott hasn’t gone into the kitchen yet, he can hear me. Although he is use to the tears now, I try to stop.

This is ridiculous, I tell myself, we aren’t even trying. 

But every month it is the same, hoping against hope that an accident will happen even though I monitor my cycle like a scientist with an experiment. I chart, I take my temperature, figure and refigure, count days and track symptoms. I have to. It is a habit now forged when I took medication that would have damaged or killed any life within me.

Eight years I spent taking rat poison daily until finally I had enough and begged my doctor to help me find an alternative. When he refused, I stopped seeing him and started a holistic regiment of vitamins and minerals that achieve the same results.

Eight years I spent knowing I couldn’t…shouldn’t do what I so desperately wanted to do. I stopped talking about it after the first year. It hurt too much. I focused on work and crafts and anything else just to not think about a baby. I told myself all manner of lies to make myself feel better about not having more children.

A month ago, I was out to dinner with my mom, sister and nephew, when my recent back trouble was at the most painful. I squirmed all through dinner – sitting hurt far more than standing. As we were getting ready to leave, my sister suggested that I try leaning on the railing of the deck where we ate and let my hips and legs just dangle to alleviate some of the pain.

Willing to try anything at that point, I did as she suggested to no avail. By back hurt just as much and I felt silly hanging on the railing.

“You and your odd hips!” my sister joked.

“They aren’t odd,” I said patting my hips as we made our way back into the restaurant proper, “I’ve got good child birthing hips.”

She gave me a funny look. “You do,” She said. “You should have had more children. You’re a good mom.”

Thankfully she looked away because otherwise she’d have seen the tears start to well in my eyes.

This morning I wake up after, once again, a night filled with dreams of pregnancy. I have them four and five times a month, usually between ovulation and the start of my period. I touch my stomach and sigh. The clock reads 6:21. I must have hit the snooze a half dozen times trying to stay in my dreams. Scott is making noise in the kitchen and soon I know he will come in to drag me out of bed.

While he is dressing, I tell him of my dream; he shakes his head and tells me I need to find a job or more hobbies to keep me occupied. But his gaze doesn’t meet my eyes. He tells me this because he too wants another child and it is easier sometimes to ignore the yearning. 

We’ve talked about it before, having more children. Had I not been diagnosed with PE shortly after Cyra was born neither of us doubt there would have been more children.

Twice in the past year, when alcohol muddied our senses and gave us cause to not think or worry, we played the two week waiting game. Twice I spent two weeks holding my breath, hoping, dreaming, thinking about names, picking out color schemes for a baby afghan. Twice Scott spent two weeks asking me how I felt, looking at my stomach, telling me “it is what it is,” then grinning as he suggests boys names.

In a few months Cyra will be 10, a few months after that Ashleigh turns 16. Maybe I am yearning now because my girls are growing up and I miss the babies and toddlers and little girls that they were. Maybe, as oft cited in magazines, my biological clock has kicked it into overdrive…hyper-speed. Maybe I am already anticipating an empty nest.

Maybe.

But I doubt it.

Going to School

I miss school. More specifically, I miss going to school to learn, not to teach. I’ve been on both sides of the desk, and I have realized that I am a better student than I am a teacher.

When I graduated from college in ’04, I was ready to go, but I regretted not being able to complete my plans of duel major in English and Religion&Philosophy. How was I to know that there was such a thing as “lifetime student loan limit?” Really?? Why limit my ability to learn when I am obligated to pay back my loan? How much money could the government have made off of my student loan interest if they kept lending me money? I could have single-handedly saved us from the economic recession! I could have been a hero!

Over the past few months I’ve been toying with the idea of going to grad school. I always planned to continue with my education, but money was always an issue. Guess what? Money is still an issue. Scott says we can figure out something if I really want to go. I suppose if I budget even more and oh I don’t know, cut out food, I might be able to afford a class each summer. It is a nice dream that I’d like to see realized sooner rather than later, but I am willing to bide my time.

I longingly perused university websites tonight looking at requirements for grad students and overall, I could easily qualify for a number of schools around me. I would love to get my Masters. Even better, I’d love to get my Masters in English and complete my Bachelors in Religion&Philosophy.

My colleagues urge me to go to the University of Phoenix to get a Masters in education. I keep telling them that I don’t want to be in education my entire life. I’ve got plans beyond where I am.

I dream big. My plans are always complicated and intricate. I know there is a way for me to return to school. Now I just have to research. Maybe I’ll find a grant for broke English teachers who work at ghetto schools and have way too many bills but are really adorable, smart and deserving!