I always had wanted to play the cello. Pre-Baby Boy, I took lessons. Then with everything that comes along with the first three years of life, my poor cello gathered dust with the ferocity of an ab roller.
This fall, I started playing again. For me, it was the opposite of the "just like riding a bike" sentiment I had hoped for. My teacher scrunched her face. "I hope you hung on to your beginner books."
But I have been practicing every night. I didn't know my neighbors could hear as I squeaked through Bartok until today.
"Well, it sounds like someone is learning an instrument!" Horrible Woman chirped.
I was about to say yes, until I saw she was addressing Baby Boy.
"If you keep at it, I'm sure you will sound so good in ten years or so," she continued as BB shoved a finger up his nose. "Practice, practice, practice...but not after 8!" She glared at me.
I pushed him toward the car as I lugged the cello which is easily three times the size of him, "Best be getting you to your lesson, Little Bach."
I can't wait until we see her after I do flat scales next to her bedroom wall at 6 am.
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