My Beatrix is special. Thanks to an accident of fate and chance and random genes, she will never grow into that normal child the pediatrician promised. She has this astonishing, one-in-a-million gift, but one that comes with an ear that hears her every mistake. A perfectionist with mile-high standards for herself, quick to become frustrated and anxious when her fingers don’t cooperate.
But when they do, it is magical.
I grab two packets of Goldfish from the glove compartment, then pass them to the back seat. We’re only a few miles from home, but I have learned to always come prepared. Juice boxes, snacks, iPads with every movie known to man. I’m not above parenting by distraction.
“Help Bax open his, will you?” I say to Beatrix, but I’m too late. They’re already playing tug-of-war with the bag.
“Give it to me. I can open it on my own.” Baxter kicks the back of my seat in protest.
“You can’t do it by yourself,” Beatrix says, her voice matter-of-fact. “You’re too little.”
“I’m not little! Give it here.” Baxter swipes at the bag, but his big sister is too strong. He can’t pry the packet from Beatrix’s fingers. “Mommy, Beatrix won’t give me my Goldfish. Make her give me my Goldfish!”
This happens hundreds of times a day, relentless bickering over anything, everything, nothing.
I take a deep, deep breath and try not to death-grip the steering wheel. How does this happen? How can it be that I spend every second my kids are out of sight missing them terribly, picturing their adorable little faces all day long, seeing their sweet smiles, imagining the feel of their bony arms around me, then I have them for ten minutes in the car and I’m counting the seconds until bedtime.
“Miss Juliet says you worked on a new piece.” I stuff my words with enthusiasm and smile into the rearview mirror, trying to catch Beatrix’s eye under those tousled white-blond curls, a cloud of a million tiny ringlets she wishes would lie flat like her brother’s.
The distraction works. Beatrix sighs and lets go of the crackers. “Yeah.”
“That’s great. Which one?”
“Fantaisie Impromptu. But I think I want to play the piano.”
I can’t help myself; I laugh. School starts in two weeks, and thanks to Miss Juliet’s nonnegotiable requirement for a minimum of three hours of daily practice, our schedules are already packed. With Beatrix’s ear, she could probably pick up a new instrument quickly, but still. “When on earth would you find time to practice the piano, too?”
“Not ‘too.’ I want to play the piano instead of the violin.”
I roll to a stop at the intersection, and my foot punches the brake a little too hard. I lurch against the seat belt and twist around on my seat. “Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t quit the violin.”
Beatrix hears the horror in my voice. We all do. Even Baxter stops tugging on his Goldfish wrapper and waits for his sister’s answer.
“Why not?”
“You know why.” It’s something we talk about often, how this spectacular gift comes hand in hand with a spectacular responsibility. “You can’t throw away all the work you’ve done. You just can’t.”
“Says who?”
“Says me. Says your father and Miss Juliet. You’re a violin prodigy.”
She frowns and drags her gaze to the window. “I hate that word. I wish people would stop saying it.”
I stare at my daughter’s profile, trying to puzzle out if there’s anything fueling this sudden change of heart, or if her announcement is for shock value only. Ever since that day in the toy aisle at Target, Beatrix’s musicality has felt equal parts exhilarating and consequential, an all-encompassing talent that means my daughter’s most important relationship is with an inanimate object. I’ve tried very hard to make sure she doesn’t miss out on friends and school and normal, nine-year-old life, fighting traffic to squeeze in playdates and birthday parties when really she should be practicing, but quit? Put down the violin and let all that talent and hard work go to waste?
Like hell. Not going to happen.
The car behind me honks, and I turn back to the road.
“Mommy, what happens when a kangaroo jumps on a trampoline?” Baxter says apropos of nothing, his voice light and carefree. The pureness of him melts my heart.
“I don’t know, baby. He jumps even higher, I guess.”
But Beatrix is still feeling combative. “No, he doesn’t.”
“Yes, he does.”