Picture this. A moment at the height of frustration. Let's say its Saturday. All four of us need to be somewhere. Somewhere at a certain time. BioMom is heading out, I ask "can you start my car?" A little grumble at the added detail on an already too-long list, but "yeah." With an unexpected 15 minutes left over I try to squeeze in piano practice for the unwilling and distraction-seeking Six. This goes nowhere as I can't get dressed and get directions to wherever we're going AND coach her on a new song (even though she now knows all the notes). This is highly frustrating because when I DO sit down with her, she invariably either doesn't remember or fakes that she doesn't remember what the notes are. Staring (again) at the black letter on the bottom of staff, the one with the line running through it, as though she's never seen the note in her life despite spending much of last semester learning the notes on the staff, I lose it. "EEEEE! It is EEEE! It will always be EEE! See, this song that you mastered last week? What note is that?" "e. . . . But that was a different song!" "It is like reading!!! An L is and L is an L, right?"
Ugh.
We get to the car -- no minor feat, as you know. Bucked, in our seats... When I look and BioMom had not fully depressed the start button on the car and the Prius was not actually running. I loose it...
"Can't any of us do anything to completion? I mean really finish something?"
Six responds: "You know, love is the only thing that really matters. And we love each other. So, finishing something doesn't really matter."
Of course, she's right.
That night though, we were discussing her impending 7th birthday. She started talking about presents and what she's interested in getting. I responded:
"But, as you said, isn't the most important thing love? Isn't THAT all that matters?"
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