I'm listening to the oldest practice. When he's done, we'll go.
"Custom paint job," B noted yesterday, and then he took the oldest to the lesson room just off the main room, where he showed the oldest his first chords and charmed him by plugging the guitar into an amp.
When I picked the oldest up an hour later, he tried his hardest to act cool, but inside he was dancing, happier than he's been in almost forever, and I could see it. I paid and scheduled the next lesson a week out, while beside me the oldest made sure he had his homework, his picks, his custom painted guitar.
In the car the oldest leaned forward and started chattering. "Every Boy Gets Devoured And Eaten. You know, like Godzilla. The letters are the notes. The strings. Get it?" And I tried hard to act cool, but inside I was dancing with him.
The "B" String