We're coming up on the annual holiday violin concert, an event in which I play in a section with middle school girls.  This year, I'm contributing to three pieces, including "Fiddle Like the Dickens," "Wassail Song," and Gigue from Veracini's Sonata in D Minor.  I'm excited, and my goal is to limit air-bowing to 14 measures of the the gigue.

I realized the other day that I've been studying violin with my teacher, Jennifer, for four years now. I find violin to be meditative, satisfying, and generally life-enriching.

Mac has also been studying with Jennifer for four years.  He finds violin to be torturous, excruciating, and generally soul-sucking.

Although it's made us both miserable on many occasions, I have diligently persevered in forcing that child to produce music.  "He's the type of kid that needs to be made to do something," I'd explain to skeptical friends.  "And he's really good at it," I rationalized.  And sometimes, on a rare occasion, he actually did seem happy playing his little instrument.  But most of the time, in the vast majority of cases, he wailed and stomped and barred himself in his room to delay putting the bow to the strings.

So, finally this fall, I conceded the battle over violin.  Today's recital is his last.

I talked at length with Jennifer about my decision to throw in the towel as a Suzuki parent.  Am I a failure? I asked.  Am I doing the right thing?

"Look," she said, "Mac is probably the strongest-willed student I've ever had in my studio."

I was relieved to hear this.  The problem is not that I'm faint-hearted; it's that he's a total, unrelenting pain in the butt.