What if I don’t really know my child as well as I think I do?

When my son asked for a guitar, I said no with the kind of finality that brooks no backward glance. There was no second of deliberation; there were no second thoughts.

He’s my child, after all. I can’t carry a tune, so it makes sense that he can’t either. Who understands a child as well as his parent? Who else has known a person his entire life? I know him like I know myself. I know he doesn’t do music.

Before I continue, you should know that there is music running through the veins of this family, and it makes sense that my son was drawn to playing an instrument. My husband leins. His brother plays the drums. Various uncles and cousins play the keyboard, drums, saxophone, and clarinet. We even have a family band that plays the signature family song at weddings. And that’s just on my husband’s side. On mine, we had a promising pianist who could have been a potential candidate for Julliard, had she cared enough to try.

So you can’t blame my son for dreaming of strumming a guitar at a camp kumzitz. But don’t blame me for doubting him either. My decision wasn’t baseless. I’d heard him practice his bar mitzvah parshah. I didn’t think he had inherited the gift of music that runs in our families.

But my son thought he did have the gift, and every month or so, with patience that belied his youth, he’d bring up the guitar again, and with what was becoming a familiar finality, I’d say no. My husband agreed with me, and he would know, I thought. He’d taught our child to lein.

But it turns out that our children can surprise us by showing how well they know us, the people who raised them, almost as well as we know ourselves. Maybe they know us even better than we know them. My son, after months of nos, had a strategy to win his mother over to his way of thinking. This time, he suggested that he’d buy the guitar; all I had to do was pay for the lessons. He referenced Chanukah, his birthday, afikomen. He really did know me: he knew how to appeal to my sense of responsibility and practicality all at once.

As it turned out, when it came to music, I didn’t know my son at all. After hiring a teacher all on his own, he raced through his lessons and practiced every free moment. Soon, he was composing songs. Soon, he owned a second guitar. (Electric, as well as electric blue.) Soon, guilt was unwinding in me, an unwanted guest settling in, asking unwanted questions.

What if he hadn’t been this determined? What if I would’ve never said yes? What if I don’t really know my child as well as I think I do?

As parents, we lull ourselves into believing  this illusion that Mother Knows Best, but the truth is that sometimes she doesn’t. Although we tend to think of our children as extensions of ourselves, they’re independent people, more complex and singular and mysterious than we imagine.

Late at night, when I’d hear the soft strumming of the guitar as I prepared to wind up my day, I’d swell with pride. I tried to focus on the triumph of my son’s spirit, rather than dwell on my guilt. But still, in the corner of my mind, the relentless tap, tap of that guilt was saying, You almost prevented this from happening.

Finally, in a fit of open honesty, I asked my son what he thought of this guitar story. He looked at me quizzically, and asked, What story? I wanted to learn to play the guitar, and now I do. It was only then that I was able to reframe it in my mind from The Tale of a Mother’s Mistake to The Story of a Boy’s Determination.

A year later, we were at my daughter’s wedding. I stood in front of the musicians’ dais, watching uncles, brothers-in-law, nephews, and my sons take their place with their instruments. If you had told me I’d have room in my mind to reflect on my son and his guitar on the day of my daughter’s marriage, I wouldn’t have believed you.

But there I was, looking at my son as he stood there with his guitar, studying his music sheets, strumming intently. While proud that he was part of the family band, I recognized that he got there on his own, with patience and determination. But I want to be the kind of mother who’s a help, not a hindrance.

Next time, I told myself, maybe just a second of deliberation.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 681)