Pizza, Pizzicatos and Parental Pride

Tea: Blood Orange (Herbal)

Music: Various selections for strings.

Time: Night.

My son's strings group was one of five (one grade school, three middle school, one high school) ensembles playing tonight at his high school. It's an annual fundraising event dubbed "Night in Italy" for the simple fact that pizza is the main food offering. (There's also a dessert bake sale. We made marshmallow brownies. I, of course, had the bread pudding.)

My son plays the cello -- while walking around. His group is the Strolling Strings, you see, and only the double basses and the drummer get to stay put.

He has a lot of fun, and it's a lot of fun to watch and hear him. (Lest I be accused of playing favorites, I also love watching and hearing the senior daughter play in the chamber orchestra and sing with her choral ensemble, and hearing and watching the eighth grade daughter sing in her chorale.)

Tonight was his night, though, and I came away with -- not an epiphany, but a renewed understanding of something.

I'm proud that he's my son -- as I am that my daughters are my daughters -- but even prouder to be known as their father. There's a difference, although I have neither time nor energy to parse it tonight. Suffice it to say that it's gratifying to see them be their own people, using their own gifts and pursuing their own interests.

I see parents trying to make their children into carbon copies of themselves. That's wrong on so many fronts. They are mine, yes, and their mother's, but not in the sense of being "owned" and powerless to be themselves.

They may not take paths I would have taken. In several cases, that's a good thing. The important thing is that they find their own gifts, their own passions, their own personalities.

So far, so good.