It’s all “I don’t wanna” and “I hate this” and “I never asked for this” when it’s time for music lessons.

I know I’m ruining their lives. I'm destroying their Saturdays. I'm forcing them to do something they don't want.

I hope some day, when they're pacing in a home they don't own yet with a head full of insomnia and worry about things that will be forgotten by morning; someday when they're trying to tell someone (maybe even themselves) about the ache they have or the pure joy that needs to jump out and dance; someday when they are walking through the late evening light of a grocery store parking lot and the girls sitting on the bumper of a Buick Skylark (or its future equivalent) beg to hear "The Rain Song" – they won't find themselves wishing and mute, but simply pick up the guitar and open up to what they have inside, a thing that these music lessons let them unlock at will.

Of course, it's just as likely that none of that will happen.

Yes, it's just as likely they'll hold court at a party instead about how their old man made them play. Or connect with a stranger in a diner with resentment over what their dad made them do for 30 minutes each week without regard to their real needs and wants.

Still, the way I figure it, either way, they have something worthwhile.

But, in the meantime, I’ll have to live with it.

And so will they.