supper club

I've joined a little supper club of neighborhood women who meet once a month at one of their houses for dinner and conversation. Tonight is my turn to host, which leads to the dilemma of what to do with Mac. Supper Club starts at 7pm and Mac's bedtime is 7:30, so I told him he can stay downstairs to meet everybody for a couple minutes and then he must be banished to his room upstairs or else.

(The "else" being that I said we wouldn't leave for Disney World until Friday instead of tomorrow, and he actually believed me.)

Always one to love a party, he then asked if he might read a story to the ladies.

Um. No. (I mean, I do everything to encourage his reading, but this isn't a poetry open mike night.)

Then he asked if he might play the piano.

Um. Double NO on that one. Does he remember that he stopped taking lessons last month? He keeps playing this little song that he's made up over and over and over, and I think he thought tonight was going to be his big debut.

That made me remember our neighbors in Guadalajara. They were both dentists (he was the one who asked me if I'd ever thought about having a nose job or a boob job. But that's a story for another day.) The first time we went to their house, they made their son give us a concert. He was about 8 and maybe he was playing under duress or maybe not. I don't remember him as a child prodigy, just your average 8 year-old recreational piano player. In any event, he played and played and played that piano. There was no conversation during the performance. We just had to sit and listen attentively. And in our young newlywed life, Jimmy and I made a pact that we would never subject our guests to an 8 year-old's playing the piano. In honor of that pact, there will be no playing of the piano tonight.