The gift you give a child if you want their parents to experience real torture

Send help. I’ve officially entered the recorder era of parenting.

I thought I’d be safe until the dreaded fourth grade concert, where 30 kids squeak out “Mary Had a Little Lamb” in unison.

But here I am. TWO YEARS IN! I’ve got a private preview show in my lounge room. Front row seats. No refunds. 

Not a prodigy — just… loud

My mom gifted it to him, and I couldn’t help asking, “Do you hate me?”

Pretty sure it’s her revenge for the toy keyboard I tortured her with as a kid. 

Think Ross in “Friends” playing his “wordless sound poems.”

Barking dogs, lawnmowers, chaos.

Only now, the tables have turned. I’m Chandler. And Mom? She’s Janice. Laugh and all.

There’s no musical gift. It’s just one continuous, shrill note.

He’s no child prodigy in the musically gifted department.

So we’ve been marked safe from a 2012 Ellen appearance alongside that kid who sang Nicki Minaj’s song in the dress.

I’d take “Hot Cross Buns” or “Three Blind Mice,” but he doesn’t take requests at this point.

The soundtrack to my life is less “Bluey” theme song and more smoke alarm with a dying battery.

Even the cat runs for cover when the recorder comes out.

Recorder karma is real

I thought I’d gained the upper hand when my mom presented him with it. I hid it. I put it away in a toy box, hoping I could skip over it during the toy rotation. But he found it.

I could hide it again. But something nags at me about restricting creativity when it comes to play. 

I used to be that person without children who gifted recorders to parents I wanted to annoy.

Gifting their child with an annoying tool to do my bidding while I wasn’t around.

I thought I was funny. I wasn’t. I was an a–hole.

This is my karma. 

The universe watched me laugh at other parents’ suffering and said, “Your turn.”

The universe sent the joke to me in the shape of my own mother.

And honestly? I deserve it.

If you’re someone who gifts recorders to children. You’re evil. I can say that because this is self-reflection.  

My lounge room sounds like a flock of geese being strangled. Don’t subject even your worst enemy to that. 

Because honestly, Harry Potter’s Azkaban didn’t need dementors to punish Voldemort’s Death Eaters.

It needed children with recorders.

Dishing out that energy as a gift. Savage behavior. 

So if you need me, I’ll be here… serving a life sentence in the recorder wing of parenting prison.

All the while hoping that no one gifts him a drum set.