In what can only be described as an obvious and unmistakable act of war, Michael brought home a recorder and gave it to Rebecca this afternoon. 

The shrieks, squawks, and squeals started long before the recorder was actually out of its packaging. Our daughter, when excited, has the vocal capacity to imitate what I can only imagine as a peacock that has snorted several lines of cocaine. This was the sound now coming out of her as she clawed at the plastic in which the recorder was shrink-wrapped. 

Knowing I wouldn’t be able to make myself heard over the ornithological-sounding din, I fixed Michael with a dead-eyed stare, waiting for him to notice. Finally, he looked over my way and gave a shrug and hand wave that communicated, “What was I supposed to do? It’s in the school curriculum.” (Shrugs and handwaving can get oddly specific in their messaging once you pass 15 years in a relationship)

The truth is, we had both known this day was coming. The school had made the announcement. I’m pretty sure, upon opening the email and reading that recorders would be part of the upcoming musical curriculum, that a collective wail could be heard in and around my neighborhood – the communal cry of parental anguish that is emitted when we all recognize the self-sacrifice that is about to come. 

I wouldn’t be that upset about my daughter learning a musical instrument, but I get frustrated trying to justify something that seems to have no inherent value. The recorder is one of those relics that seems to have had its hey-day back when Shakespeare was still writing his plays. It’s not like it’s a hot-ticket item (“Look kids! Shakira’s new single features a recorder solo!”). Nobody is clamoring to hear the recorder – I have yet to hear anyone ever say, “Yes I enjoy the classical programming of my local public radio station, but really what would take it to the next level is to play more recorder music.” 

But for some reason, the public school system has latched onto the recorder as a way of teaching basic music notation to impressionable fourth-graders. And during that two-to-four week period, the parents of said fourth-graders have to listen to interminable screeching and whistling that, while uncomfortably piercing, is not quite piercing enough to put it outside the sound frequency that the human ear can capture. (It must be said, though, that the din is high-pitched enough to attract dogs – so, we get the double benefit of ruptured eardrums AND strange dogs on our property at any given time)

Again, I wouldn’t have any issue with this, except that nobody seems to emerge from these school-sanctioned recorder jam sessions with a newfound love of the instrument. There is no spot for a recorder in the school band. There are no budding recordists vying for college scholarships to hone their craft. “I trace my love of the recorder back to learning to play Three Blind Mice when I was nine years old,” says no one ever. 

So with all of that in mind, I had drawn a line in the sand several days prior, by emphatically stating that no, our daughter would not be participating in the recorder curriculum. Michael was a bit baffled, even after I explained my stance to him. “But what will we tell the school?” 

“We could say it’s against our religion.”

“…you used to teach music for a living.”

“Yeah but that was on the piano. It’s different.” (It is. Pianos, while still having the potential to annoy, can’t shriek at you the way a recorder can. Plus, they are still culturally relevant)

Perhaps recognizing that this was not the moment to poke the (admittedly uncompromising) bear, Michael allowed the conversation to move on to other subjects, recognizing the smart move would be to fight another day. That day being today, when he side-stepped me completely by both purchasing and giving the offending recorder to our daughter without my knowledge. 

As Rebecca pried the recorder from the wrapping and, blowing into the mouthpiece, began to emit sounds that I can only imagine demons in hell would run from, I waved Michael’s shrug aside and narrowed my eyes, mouthing the words I will end you. He rolled his eyes and continued unloading groceries. In all fairness, he might have been willing to talk it out, but by then both of our ears were starting to bleed from the unholy screeching that was emanating from our daughter’s bedroom. 

I took a break for a few days after writing the above and have come back now to attest that while we have all grown used to the recorder, it hasn’t grown on any of us except Rebecca. The rest of the family has what can only be described as a shellshocked acceptance to the shrieking whistles that echo around our house at any given moment. As well as the random dogs that now run amok on our property. Rebecca doesn’t seem affected by our lack of enthusiasm, which may be the one silver lining: the girl appears to have found her passion. Unfortunately, it appears that the recorder is going to be around for a long time.