My father' s family is not a musical family. They are a family of words. My brother has my father's dark hair, his love of a good argument. I take after my mother. From her I inherited a curious nature, a sense of adventure, bright red hair. I did not, contrary to her hopes, inherit a talent for the piano. That fact was established beyond doubt after unsuccessful attempts to draw music from me. The piano lessons began when I was four. My mother was convinced that I would be a child Mozart. She found the ideal teacher--Madame Oblenka, a strict Russian woman, whose pursed lips were enough to frighten a wild horse into submission. Madame Oblenka, who expected a little Mozart, was not very delighted to find a little girl banging her fists on the keys. I tried to please her. "Feel the music," she urged. I "felt" it and winced    my ear--for what is more unpleasant than a series of wrong notes played continuously? She "felt" my music, too, which is why she always left with an angrier expression than when she came. Once, when I was ten, I managed to record one of my own rehearsals  . In order to escape my practice sessions, I would close myself behind the door of the piano room, put on the tape recording, and read until the tape had finished. That method worked for a week, until my mother began to wonder why I always missed the same B-sharp. She knocked on the door, and, receiving no answer, came in to check on me and found that I had fallen asleep while the tape of my performance played on and on. I was twelve when my parents finally acknowledged that my hidden talent was not about to _ any time soon. My mother, refusing to admit defeat, told me to pick another instrument. "Choose anything you want, Honey," she said, assuming that freedom of choice would inspire devotion. I thought long and hard and chose the drums. My parents, sensitive to noise, would be less than overjoyed by a daily bombardment of playing. I imagined my father in his study, cotton wads in his ears. I worked my way through several other instruments before my mother hit on another idea. Maybe I wasn't meant to be an instrumentalist. Realizing that drama might be more suited to my talents, Mom took me to a drama teacher. However, he put me backstage, painting scenery. Once I recovered from my sense of injury, I realized the wisdom of his choice. I loved the active, practical backstage world, and I discovered that I had a knack for constructing and painting. I loved the challenge of taking our scanty   supplies and using them to make something beautiful. Imagining a scene and then seeing it emerge before me--this, to me, was close to magic. I'm a sculptor now, and every day I experience afresh the joy of being fully absorbed in the act of artistic creation. It's a wonderful, blissful   feeling. I realize that my parents, in their misguided attempts to interest me in music, were trying to give me this feeling. And now I feel grateful. Perhaps they went about it in the wrong way, but their hearts were in the right place. Which of the following best reveals the author's attitude towards piano practice?
She tried to make the piano teacher pleased. She repeated the same mistake in practicing. She played the recording instead of practicing. She recorded her performance for improvement.