Sort of. Well, we’re not exactly cultivating a little Mozart, here.
We’re spending more time in Henry’s room, in preparation for moving him into it – and no more about that just now, because it gives me palpitations just thinking about it. After we’d exhausted the possibilities of the rocking chair this afternoon, we investigated the piano.
Finger control isn’t brilliant, yet, but he’s only had five months to master having fingers in the first place. Give him time.
After we’d bashed around for a bit, Henry was relegated to his cot with some toys and I got out my music. As I started playing I felt a missing part of me clunking back into place, settling solidly where it should be, and I thought ‘oho, there you are‘. It’s almost ten years since I finished my grades (ouch, really?), and I’m not terribly good anymore, truth be told, but having music come out of my fingers is one of the most soul-satisfying things I know.
I hope he loves it too.
And I very much need to find a piano tuner, because, wow.