The first time I was to walk three houses down the street for piano lessons, I was excited. The Saturday before, my Dad had brought me to the music store to pick up my books: theory, performance, technique, all level one. I sat in the back row of the car on the way home, flipping pages until I found song names I recognized, and then built up more anticipation that I would soon be playing those pieces with grace and skill.

Grace I had, at least as much as any nine-year-old girl whose hobbies were gymnastic and dance could be. I was still gangly and carried a little-girl belly. I remember tripping over my own shoes on the way to my first piano lesson three houses down, dropping my purple theory book, and being ready to cry at the thought of tainting my near-perfect walk to piano class. Excitement still built,at the prospect that I was now only one house away from piano lessons.

My piano teacher showed me how to place my hands on the keys, how to find middle C, and how to distinguish bass from treble clef notes. I could do that, no problem. The first few weeks, I acknowledged the inherent difficulties of learning a new instrument. But only a few weeks could I take.

Before piano, I had been an ace at dance and gymnastics the first time I tried each. I could draw quite well and was the first in my kindergarten class to learn how to read. I had a vocabulary well past my age and had yet to meet a teacher I could not impress. Piano took work, and I was not used to that.I made my way through the level one books by trying to convince my teacher I understood everything she said, though I barley scraped by. The next fall, my Dad and I returned to the music store to buy the level two editions of each book I had grown to loathe. Excitement had waned, though I became excited again as I recognized more titles in my books. My teacher scolded me upon my return for having obviously not practiced over the summer.

From that piano lesson on, I only practiced the songs I liked and slouched at the piano stool defiantly pouting and faking illness whenever my mother forced me to go over the sheet music with hard-pressed pencil marks all over them: my piano teacher's stern instructions to practice until I got it.I had had it with piano. If I weren't good at it right away, I never would be.It's stupid anyway. Who needs piano? I'll have pianists to play music for me when I dance. If I want to hear a song so badly, I can just play the tape. I maturely sat my parents down and laid out my arguments for why I should not continue piano lessons. Piano was dumb, I didn't like it, and would rather do something else. I did not impress my parents as I had my grade four teacher with my negotiation skills. They forced me to stay, and the standoff was on.

I didn't practice anything. When I was forced onto the piano stool after dinner threatened with the abduction of my favourite Barbies, I played made-up songs that I liked much better because no one could tell me I'd hit the wrong note.And still, I was forced to go to piano lessons. My teacher was always patient with me, but forcefully implored me to practice. Nope.

The Kids Help telephone line from the TV commercials said if you had a problem,to call them. So I did. I called and told them my parents were making me take piano lessons and I didn't want to. Forget that the call line was set up for kids who were beat by their parents or who had been touched 'down there', I had a piano lessons crisis. That was the climax in the standoff that finally ended my piano lessons. My mum was appalled that I had called some government-sponsored child abuse line to complain about her. I was out of piano.

My brother gave it a shot and I was too glad to pass the buck off to him to deal with. I was free from piano lessons, thanks goodness.

My piano lessons didn't haunt me again until university. Until first-year university when I got my first non-A grade on a paper. What? But, how? The struggle to figure out what went wrong lasted a few months until I deeply regretted not sticking through with piano lessons. I was faced with a new situation for which I was not naturally adept to succeeding, that required me to work hard, beyond what I could just pass off with minimal effort or thought. If only I'd followed through with piano lessons, I thought, waking up to the world of working hard would not be so rude.

Oh, the things I would have learned and accomplished, had I stuck it out in piano lessons. I would have tried harder at track and field, pushed my limits until I impressed myself. I would have worked harder on my rugby team and maybe have been a top-scorer. I'll never know, because in grade four, I decided if at first I didn't succeed, I'd give up and never try again.Better late than never, as the saying goes. Hard work in the last four years has given me, among other things, a degree, a beautiful relationship that prospers,and a discovered passion for running- a primary example of the rewards reaped by hard work.

It really is better to live a life of highs and lows than continued monotony, a life without challenges. For how can one appreciate the joy of success without experiencing the despair of failure?
I think I'll make my kids take piano lessons.