Harmonica...O how I hate thee!

Here's a pointer for all you would-be, should-be, might-be parents. Don't buy an eight year old a harmonica. My mom made that mistake, and Olivia decided to wake me up playing something a cross between the Mexian Death March and a cat in the trash compactor. I jolted awake, looking like a creature from Shelley's imagination, and behaving like Queen Latifah in "Bringing Down the House."
For a moment, I thought I was dead, but I realized that if that was somebody's idea of a heavenly chorus, they needed lots of help.
Olivia just beamed at me, "I hope you like it because I wrote it for you."
What can you say to that? Really. I just melted into a puddle, and smiled at her, and told her thank you....that I loved it. Can God really hold that teeny lie against me? And I really did feel warmer to it after she told me about it.
I passed mom on the way to the blessed shower, and grumbled, "Was it YOUR idea to buy her that noisemaker?"
She just grinned, and told me that Bethany and I had both had hormonicas.
I told her I didn't remember that. Perhaps I blocked it out.
"I do," she said with emphasis.
I later learned Olivia had dropped it on the street, and it fell apart, nearly getting run over. It survived. Mom put it back together like Humpty freakin' Dumpty, and now as I write this, Olivia is sounding like the Little Engine That Couldn't.