Peaked Performance

by Peggy Duffy

One Sunday afternoon, my husband and I found ourselves in an ice cold classroom waiting for our daughter to perform in a piano festival. We sat on even colder, hard plastic chairs designed to keep high school students awake under the most boring circumstances, such as listening to their teachers, or while executing the most tedious of tasks, like taking tests. Either my husband had reached an age where the sleepless guarantee on the chairs had expired, or the circumstances in which we sat defied the definition of boring. I vote for the latter. For almost three hours, we had been listening to one young pianist after another perform two pieces before two judges and an audience which consisted of the parents of those performers and a few unlucky siblings.

The music wasn't the problem; for the most part, each piece was well-practiced and competently played. The judges were the problem. For every three minutes of playing time, they spent ten minutes noting comments on their evaluation forms while the spotlighted pianist sat on the piano bench waiting for them to be done. Meanwhile, the audience sat in silence to the accompanying scratch scratch of scribbling pencils until the judges finally looked up and signaled the pianist to begin the second piece. Three minutes of music, then again, the interminable rating period.

During one of these musical interludes, I glanced over and saw my husband's chin touching his chest. His eyes were closed, and he inhaled and exhaled in shallow, even breaths. I held mine and prayed he wouldn't tumble off his chair and land at my feet. Or worse, start snoring loudly in the middle of some young pianist's performance. At the same time, my heart went out to him. This was a man who rose every weekday at dawn to drive his three children to swim practice before heading off to work.

I remember a long time ago, in that era I refer to as BC (Before Children), when sunrise was a time we occasionally stayed up until, not the time we regularly woke up before. We'd adjusted to the disruption each new baby brought into our lives-the middle of the night and early morning feedings, the arsenal of bottles and diapers and wipes hauled wherever we went, the inability to eat a full meal together in a restaurant. We took turns walking the unruly child outside.

It began innocently enough. In an effort to foster well-rounded children, we signed each up for a few organized sports' activities. Before long, their individuality began to emerge. One wanted to take dance classes, another music lessons, the third gymnastics. The soccer and basketball games lasted about an hour; the ballet and piano recitals were held once a year, as were the class observations. The children fumbled and made mistakes, and the whole display was adorable and entertaining. We patted our children on their respective backs and told them what great jobs they were doing. It all seemed manageable.

Pretty soon they started getting good at some of these activities, exhibiting real talent and innate ability. Or so their coaches and teachers told us while suggesting we enroll them in a higher level team or class. Seasonal activities, like swimming, became year-long commitments. Practices took more time, progressing to two times a week, then three or more. The games and recitals and competitions were held more often - there were also the invitational ones for the particularly dedicated and motivated participants.

That weekend alone, my husband and I had spent the bulk of our time sitting through a marathon-length swim meet, a basketball game and now, in a cold high school classroom where apparently no one had been told to turn the heat on, a piano festival. Much of that time was spent waiting - waiting for our children to appear on the court or the field or the stage or the pool deck, waiting in order to nurture their dreams, support their efforts and share in their achievements.

I nudge my husband as the judges indicate their readiness for the pianist to begin her second song. He awakens with a sleepy nod, whispering assurances that he will not sleep through his child's performance. It's what he's been waiting for. I glance at my daughter, who is next. She is musically advanced for her years of study, or so her teacher tells me, and has worked hard to prepare for today. I can only hope the judges will agree. She appears oblivious to her surroundings, like her father whose eyes have closed again. Her eyes are focused off in the distance as she moves her fingers across imaginary keys along the surface of the piano book sitting on her lap, waiting her turn.