Fourth grade.
That should strike fear in any heart.
The homework gets harder. The projects get loopier. The textbooks are written poorly (or at least the science book our daughter uses was written by morons who don't have a good grasp of language).
Oh, and the recorders.
Now, our daughter actually can carry a tune. The recorder, not so much.
Our eldest has had piano lessons since she was 4. She begged for them. She's been reading music about as long as she could read English.
No matter. The recorder she happily brought home today thwarts that. It's not that it sounds bad. It's just shrill.
Like Rita Crosby Live and Direct. On high. With nails going across the blackboard in the background.
It's painful. Fourth grade means recorders for lessons in music reading and basic instrument playing across the nation.
Buy stock in Excederin, folks. I'm gonna be using a lot of it.
1 comment:
Oh, my. I remember when my brother learned the recorder. Mom usually sent him upstairs to practice while I practiced piano downstairs. Fortunately, his room was on the third floor of the house. But we could still hear bits and pieces. Ouch.
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