Meet son #1.

He lives in Texas.  He plays bass guitar.   He’s in a couple of bands.  He sings.
And he writes songs.

He was born almost 11 weeks early, and that first month of his life was incredibly scary.  He actually died three times and was resuscitated  (I love doctors, nurses and neonatal hospital units and the Baby Bird respirator).  He was purple and bruised and incredibly tiny.

Now he is 6’4″.  Imagine that.

I originally decided to take violin lessons so that I would have a connection to his world.  I’d played guitar in high school and took piano lessons in my twenties (but had to stop because morning sickness made me too dizzy to sit on the piano stool).  My mother remembers my taking violin lessons for a couple of months in 4th grade, but it doesn’t sound as if that went very well.  At least not the way she describes it!

So here I am, still struggling after 5 years.  It’s a good struggle,  though.   I may never stand on stage and play fiddle riffs while my son sings, but the fantasy keeps me going.

And the music connection does exist between us, because Son #1 has an amazing tendency to call me when I’m in the middle of band practice or about to walk in the door of band practice.  It’s a little eerie.  I guess he feels the vibes and wishes he was playing with us instead of those music legends in Austin.