Music Man

My little son A. Peevie has taken up the trombone. It's more like the trombone has taken up A. Peevie. It's taller than he is, and weighs more than he does. When A. Peevie picks up the trombone, it wraps itself around him and wrestles him to the ground. The slide is a slippery rogue, frequently escaping from its brass case and clanking on the floor.

By the time A.P. finally gets the instrument situated properly, with the mouthpiece in position, his right hand fingers wrapped correctly around the slide brace, and his lungs fully inflated, he's exhausted and needs to sit down and catch his breath. He's supposed to practice 15-20 minutes per day--but does that include 10 minutes of set-up time?

(By way of background, when Mr. Peevie was a little boy, he wanted to play the trombone, too. His band teacher told him that his arms were too short, and that he'd never be able to reach seventh position. But at least he's in good freakishly-short-arm company.)

Eeeenyway, apparently, it's really and truly difficult, especially for a smallish boy, to master the notes on a trombone. A. Peevie can get two of the five notes he's working on, but the other ones--not so much. I guess he's pursing when he should be buzzing--and he's about ready to quit. (BTW, I learned from Mr. Peevie that the use of facial muscles and the shaping of the lips to the mouthpiece of a wind instrument is called embouchure.)

I'm hoping he'll stick with his trombone, and someday, he'll be joined by 75 others in a big parade. Excellent.

Meanwhile, with his big brother playing trumpet, and his little sister just generally being loud every chance she gets, I'm praying to go deaf.