When my children found out that we were moving, they were understandably upset. “We don’t want to move!” they cried. “We like everything here!” But I made them move anyway, because I am cruel and heartless.

Despite my cruelty I really did everything within my power to make the transition a smooth one for them. I’m referring, of course, to the numerous bribes I offered.

“It’ll be great!” I told them. “We’ll love it! And I’ll buy you a PONY! And you can take piano lessons!”

The pony thing didn’t work out (though not for lack of trying) (okay, really it was that I tried to talk my husband into a small goat), but my daughter had been begging for piano lessons for over a year and suddenly my son was interested as well. And I scoured the area and left no stone unturned in locating the very best piano teacher in town.

Okay, fine, he happens to live right next door. I got lucky, okay?

Anyway, he really is a great piano teacher. And how awesome is it that he’s right next door? I was envisioning an extra hour to work each when when they had lessons. Oh, sure, I’d take them over there the first few times, but after that? “Time for piano, grab your book and go next door! I’ll see you in an hour!”

It was a nice dream.

Mr. Piano (not his real name) is not letting me off that easily. At the first lesson he explained that he expects “parental participation.” What that means is that we bring them to their lessons and we observe so that we know what’s expected of the kids; what pieces they’re working on, what sort of progress they’re making, etc. He put a chair right there in the studio for me and had me sit two feet from the piano the entire time.

Well, that was fine. I should know how it’s all working, after all.

At the second lesson I tried to sit out in the waiting area. “Oh no, Mom, come on in and have a seat!” Mr. Piano called to me. Ooookay. Back into the studio. I tried to read the book I’d brought and Mr. Piano kept talking to me, pointing out things the kids were doing. I nodded and tried to look enthused.

At the third lesson I chastised my son for not listening and was treated to a lecture by Mr. Piano about how this is his studio and he’ll make the rules. Fair enough, but I’m being forced to sit here and witness my kid banging on the keyboard. Maybe I should just go sit in the other room…? No? Alrighty then.

I have now resigned myself to sitting there through both half-hour lessons. It appears to be expected of me. I bring a book and I look up and nod while I read, when really what I’m wondering is if I would get in trouble for bringing my laptop over and working through the fifteenth repetition of “Mary Had a Little Lamb,” because I’m pretty sure my wireless would work over there.

But I am here to tell you that the note test is going to be the death of me.

Not only am I losing an hour of time when I could be working, not only does the teacher insist that I sit there every single time, but each week the kids each have a turn on this “note test” which is a series of flash cards.

If they can get through the cards and properly identify all the notes in under 60 seconds, they get a “bag of gold.” The bag of gold is a bag of chocolate coins. The bag of gold is highly coveted, but not quite enough so that either of my children have passed the test, yet.

Every lesson ends with the note test. Every lesson ends with me sitting in my chair mentally screaming at top volume, desperately trying to communicate to the child on the hot seat.

“Is it… a G?”

*It’s an A, honey. Almost! A!*

“Nope, try again.”

“F?”

*Wrong way! Other way! It’s an A! AAAAAAAAA!!!!!*

“Nope.”

*A A A A A A AAAAAAAAA!*

“A!”

Needless to say, the fastest time record thus far is still well over a minute. Except for me; I’m pretty sure I can do them in under 30 seconds.

Maybe if I pass the note test, Mr. Piano will let me bring my laptop to class.