They're not good dancers, they don't play drums
Thalia is not in fact taking violin lessons. Or ballet lessons. Or Mandarin Chinese. In fact she's not taking any lessons right now because we can't afford it and I'm only 85% totally bitter about it. The other 15% is sort of this proud rejection of the over-parenting syndrome that's ubiquitous in Brooklyn.
If you twist my arm and deprive me of Real Housewives and force me to admit it, I'd blurt out that that I wish we were in the position that we could pass on the overscheduling on pure moral grounds; and not simply because we have to pay Con Ed these days on a single recession-era income. That income being mine.
So instead, we do what we can around here. We put on classical music and I teach the girls grand jetés and pirouettes. We page through the birdwatchers handbook and learn the difference between cranes and pelicans. We read One Fish Two Fish and talk about which animal we'd most like to have. (They like the wet one.) We go to Grandma's house to pick fat peas and come up with words to describe the flavor of fresh basil.
And perhaps best of all, we put on You Tube, grab some empty paper towel rolls-cum-microphones, and sing off-tune, with all the passion we can muster.
Thalia may not be able to play Twinkle Twinkle on a 1/8 size Franz Meuller, but she does know all the words to Fish Heads. At least in this household, that counts for a lot.
(Actual music starts at 2:10. Start at the beginning if you like the creepy weird new-wave artsy stuff like my kids.)