Last year Martin discovered Marty's old trumpet, safely stored away in the basement in its case, still sitting next to old sheet music from his days in pep band.  Marty showed him how to play it and he got the hang of it right away.  Not playing actual notes, but producing a trumpet sound filled with gusto.  He loves playing it, walking around the house with it making up new songs.  So yesterday when he asked if he could play it, we said he could.

He came into the kitchen a few times to play songs he'd been working on, asking if I liked it and if I could tell what it was.  He retied to his room to work on his show, then to the porch for a change of venue.  After awhile, it sounded a bit quiet, so I went to check on his progress.  What I found was this:


"Oh Martin!  What did you do?"  I said (yelled).  "This is your DAD'S trumpet, he's going to be SO UPSET!  You're supposed to be VERY CAREFUL."

"I was going to do a trick." Eyes welling.  "But the crayon got stuck inside." Lip quivering. "So I put in more crayons." Chin trembling. "And then they all got stuck." Sad sounding. "So I banged it on the floor but nothing would come out." Tears flowing. "Dad is going to be SO mad.  I'm going to have a time out right now before he gets home.  He's going to be so DISAPPOINTED." Little guy sobbing.

"You're going to have to pick up these crayons."  I reached out and held his arm gently.  "I'm going to take the trumpet in the other room."  I put my hand out for the trumpet.  "When that's done, you can go to your room to have a time out."  I squeezed his hand and walked away, leaving him to pick up the mess he'd made.  "And I want you to think about what you're going to say to your dad."

I went into the kitchen and called Marty to give him my own apology, wishing I'd kept a sharper eye on the trumpet myself.  I wanted to tell him about the situation so that when Martin talked to him Marty could listen without distraction.  I could hear Martin crying in the other room as he picked up the crayons.  As I talked to Marty, I started to cry, feeling so bad for my boy that knew he made a mistake and was really sorry.  Knowing also that I wanted him to learn a lesson about caring for other people's things, having purposefully said the line that I know makes every child feel bad... "you're going to have to tell your dad".

Martin came into the kitchen and said "Before you hang up I want to talk to dad."  I tried not to let him see I was crying, handed him the phone, feeling so proud of how brave he was and for deciding to handle it right away.  I heard him tell Marty about the trumpet, what he was trying to do, and that he was so, so, sorry for wrecking it, trying not to cry.  "We'll have to get it fixed, dad, because I don't think I can do it.  Do you know a place where we can take it?  Because it's pretty bad.  We might have to take it to Minneapolis."