Emily has a good attitude about piano. She's been taking lessons for four years and can now play songs that are actually fun and aren't mind-numbingly irritating to listen to. She normally practices without me having to nag her into it.

Will, on the other hand, just started this year and...well...he's a boy. I suspect we wouldn't have a problem if the piano was made out of Legos, his songs were printed on the back of Pokemon cards, and every time he hit a key, something would blow up on a video screen behind the music.

It's hard to get too upset with him, though, because I myself was a bit of a musical challenge back in the day. To begin with, I wasn't the highest note on the staff, if you know what I mean. Add to that a generally rotten practice ethic and you can understand why my mom was glad I was her last child.

My piano teacher, Mrs. Gilbert, was a nice little old lady who I estimated at the time to be somewhere between 50 and 100 (i.e., older than my parents, younger than death). She never criticized my playing ability or lack of effort, at least not directly. She did, however, have a rather disconcerting habit. Often while I was struggling through a piece that I had obviously failed to practice enough, she'd cough, clear her throat, and go spit into the toilet and flush. I tried not to take it personally and instead attributed it to some sort of a respiratory affliction. Hack! Har-ruff! Splip! Swoosh! At least my lessons always had rhythm.

I stuck it out for several years, and in spite of myself, learned how to play. Now, I can sit at the piano and entertain myself, as long as I'm sure nobody is listening. And when I sing hymns at church, I don't feel obligated to put a little something extra in the offering plate to atone for my atonal sins. So thank you, Mom and Mrs. Gilbert.

As for Will, so far he's doing fine. The low point came one day when I was urging him to practice by drawing an analogy to soccer, his favorite sport. Piano is like soccer, I explained to him. The more you do it the better you get and the more fun it is. "Yeah," he sulked, "but when I started soccer, I wanted to do it."

Since then, he's perked up a bit. He still complains sometimes about having to practice, but he's making good progress and seems genuinely proud of his new skills. I play duets with him and we high-five each other when we get them right. One day, he surprised his grandparents, who didn't know he was taking piano lessons, by playing Scarborough Fair, and Sleep, Baby, Sleep, among several other songs, for them. By the end, they were fawning all over him.

At this stage, I'm cautiously optimistic about the future of this musical endeavor. It might be easier on all of us than I had feared. In any case, I'm going to make them stick with it--at least until their teacher develops a chronic cough.

Dave Kehmeier is a stay-at-home dad and lives with his wife and two kids in Almaden Valley.