Thursday, September 14, 2006

Deborah commented to me today that Lovely seemed to be adjusting remarkably well to her new family construction. I agreed and tossed in how I knew that we would hit our rough spots and I was ready for it and I would be patient, yah, yah, blah. Deborah said that things might happen and they might not. "I never got the stepmom thing from my kids," she said.

That's probably because she just called them "her" kids. She accepted them right away and loved them for who they were, where they were, and whatever they were to become.

As much as I am learning to love her, I have yet to do that with Lovely. Right now, she still feels like someone else's child. Guy has already jumped right in and introduces me and "our daughter" to people like I'm the one who gave birth to her. It makes me a little uneasy; like someone is going to point and yell, "Fraud!"

Fraud is a fear of mine. For whatever reason, I have always felt like I'm just getting by in whatever I'm doing. I don't know if it is because I never planned to be a piano teacher and I never planned to be an arts administrator, or if it is some other misfiring in my brain. I swear, I'm standing in the White House, receiving an award for the school that I run, Laura freaking Bush is shaking my hand and I'm thinking, "Why am I here, and how can I keep them from finding out that it shouldn't be me?"

I would love to start taking piano lessons again myself. There are so many things that I want to learn: better technique, how to really play jazz, and a breadth of literature that I know I missed out on in my younger years. So far, what stops me from starting is fear of fraud. My students place in so many competitions that I have developed this reputation in the area as being a kickass teacher. Why then do I still feel like I'm flying by the seat of my pants? If I were to sign up for lessons, then someone in my own profession would find out how very little I know and how very little I can play of the standard classical repertoire, and I would be found out as a fraud.

So I go about my days, doing the best that I can and praying that no one finds out that I am less than I seem. Stated that way, I think maybe I could use therapy. Of course, that would mean actually talking to someone, and having them find out that in fact, I am less put together than I seem. Just a big fraud.