I mentioned last week that one of my projects, now that everyone's back in school, would be sorting through some closets and spending some time culling through my stash. Lookie what I found:
A simple little vest, finished except for the ribbing around the neck and arms, originally intended for J., but if I hurry, it might still fit N. Oh the drama one finds in a messy closet! The heartbreak, the shattered expectations, the nagging sense of shame at the unfinished project which has languished amongst stinky sneakers and dustballs.
Behold the instrument of my torture.
The dreaded plastic recorder, a staple of third-grade music education. J.'s class received theirs a week ago, and we've have been listening to the tootles and stepped-on-pig noises ever since. (On the bright side, I have a call in to Donald Rumsfeld to tell him I've found a surefire method of coercing information from terrorists that is fully consistent with the Geneva Convention.) Of course, J., being J., was immediately able to figure out such classics as "Jingle Bells."
Can the jazz flute
be far behind?