Congreve’s Rule v.2

We have iPods older than our children, courtesy of their AC uncle.  I loved mine so much that I’ve since got an upgraded model that allows me to carry pictures of my children and already I’m looking hard at the newest one which allows you to connect to the Internet.  My wife, on the other hand,  hardly uses hers.

But she did on Thursday.

I not sure what motivated her, but she called me from the car to figure out how to play it through the car stereo system.  She stuck with my confused direction long enough to actually get it going.  She must’ve loved it, because her iPod was sitting and playing in the dock of our iPod speaker system playing which, heretofore, I used pretty much exclusively.

As always, it was nice to come home from a day’s work.  Unusually, though, all of my girls had gotten there, first.  And, even more unusually, good music was wafting throughout the house and my oldest girls were cooking.

The memory is hazy, now.  I’m not sure if we had eaten or had yet to eat, but Corrine Bailey Rae’s “Breathless“ came up on the shuffle playlist.  It is a beautiful song, at once light and airy, yet warm and sensual.  It is a love song but it’s also a call to relaxation and good, easy living.

I was moved to answer the call so I picked up Tristan and started dancing. I held her cheek to my cheek and, with eyes closed, slowly twirled and twirled.  When I next opened my eyes, I was shocked to see my wife holding Marcel and dancing, too.  Marcel, for her part, was practicing her slow-dancing skills by lovingly, and hilariously, caressing her mother’s locks.

And so, I think my wife’s iPod has successfully made the case for more use or, as in the words of Corrine Bailey Rae:

“I get so breathless, when you call my name/I’ve often wondered, do you feel the same?/There’s a chemistry, energy, a synchronicity/When we’re all alone/So don’t tell me/You can’t see/Oh!”

 

You Are My Sweetheart

Several pre-Tristan months ago, Marcel sang to me.  But she wasn’t trying to be affectionate.  She was trying to be mischievous.

I had wanted her to finish dinner with us.  She, however, wanted to watch television. She tried to slip away from the table but I grabbed her.  I had intended to spoon feed her, which is sometimes the only way I can get her to eat her meals.  She, however, tried to distract me. She grabbed my head, looked deep into my eyes and, with a slight smirk, sang…

“You’re my sweet-heart.”

This caught me off gaurd.  It’s a beautiful sentiment–the kind of sentiment that a father dreams of hearing from his daughter–but, given the circumstances, not a sentiment at all expected.  Moreover, I had never heard that song sung by anybody before, much less Marcel.

I think Marcel suddenly realized that she liked it as much as I did, though, because she sang it, again.

“You’re my sweet-heart.”

I needed to know from where this came.  I tried to use my eyes to ask the question by looking into Marcel’s.  She, however, became embarassed by the emotion and evaded my gaze by fiddling with a button on my shirt.  When I pressed and angled to find eye contact, anyway, she wrapped her arms around my neck and hugged me close.  She didn’t totally let go of the sentiment, though.  In fact, she sang it again.  In my ear.

“You’re my sweet-heart.”

I was thrilled by this song, and confused by it, too, because I didn’t know where it was coming from and agitated by it, as well, because the confusion it caused interfered with my joy.  I had to know why I was so lucky, so I queried my wife. She, however, was just as confused as I was.  Meanwhile, Marcel became frustrated and hit me on my chest then sang, again.

“You’re my sweet-heart.”

Maybe she became frustrated because she thought I was ignoring her song to talk with her mother.  In that moment, however, I felt that Marcel was waiting a beat between verses so that I could respond with my song, and had only become frustrated because I wasn’t chiming in.  But this was just a feeling and only hesitantly, for fear of breaking the spell, did I echo my big girl.

“You’re my sweet-heart.”

And she responded.

“You’re my sweet-heart.”

Then, it got more amazing.  Soon, she didn’t wait a beat.  Instead, she kept singing.  Only now, her voice sang along with my voice and my voice sang along with hers.

“You’re my sweet-heart/You’re my sweet-heart.”

Soon our common verse and common metric also became a common note and common tone.

“You’re my sweet-heart/You’re my sweet-heart.”

“You’re my sweet-heart/You’re my sweet-heart.”

“You’re my sweet-heart/You’re my sweet-heart.”

Then, as magically as it began, it crescendoed.

“You’re my sweeeeeeeeeet-heaaaaaaaaaaaaaaart!”

After a beat, Marcel let go of my neck and turned to sit in my lap.  I tried to hold her close but she calmly wriggled free and walked into the tv room.

 

Congreve’s Rule

In the book “The Happiest Baby,” Harvey Karp, M.D. reveals his technique for quieting fussy babies. Our delivery hospital taught us this trick at a class for new parents prior to my big girl Marcel’s birth. Essentially, you recreate the womb by tightly swaddling the baby in a blanket, rocking the baby in your arms and shushing or otherwise recreating the white noise of the mother’s heartbeat which echoes throughout the womb.

This technique worked like magic on Marcel and, if you did it long enough, you not only quieted her but also got her to fall asleep. The only problem was that shushing gets boring pretty quick so I switched to a song.

The first songs that came to mind, I’m afraid to admit, we’re fraternity songs. Even I agree that these weren’t appropriate for a newborn girl. Thus, I searched for true lullabies.

I tried great classics like “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot”, “Rock-a-Bye Baby”, “Summertime”, “Frere Jacques” and “Hush Little Baby.” These were songs that I always enjoyed as a child but none were perfect for the task at hand because they were all so short! Who ever got a baby to sleep with just these little ditties?!?

Eventually, however, I came to “Amazing Grace”, the first gospel song that my father ever taught me. It has tons of verses. Eventually, I developed my own version that incorporated three verses and used the famous first verse like a chorus. Often, by the time I concluded the last verse of this version, Marcel was asleep. So I felt very prepared for Tristan.

Unfortunately, when I started singing it to Tristan, I realized that I didn’t want to sing this song anymore. Apparently, I had sung my fill of it. The result was noise that couldn’t possibly soothe my baby girl Tristan. I began to worry that Tristan wouldn’t be a happy baby, at all. It didn’t help that she seemed to cry quicker and longer than Marcel ever did. Then, last week, I hit the nadir.

Just as I had sat down to my desk at work, I had to rush back home to give my wife my set of our car keys. She couldn’t find hers and, without a car, couldn’t take Marcel to school and Tristan to her appointment with the Pediatrician. I got home, gave my wife the keys and, to save me some of the time I had just given her, my wife agreed to give me a ride back to work.

Even though we were all now back on track by this point, it was tough car ride. I was stressed because I was now late for a hectic day of work, my wife was stressed because she was late getting the kids to their appointments, and Marcel was stressed because she was going to lose her family just as she began to hope for a day at home with everybody. Then Tristan started crying.

Karp’s technique wouldn’t have been much help at this point because it takes time and time was what we didn’t have plus Tristan was probably crying from hunger, anyway. Still, it was a sharply pointed reminder that I hadn’t yet figured out how to make my baby girl the happiest baby girl and that left me not happy, at all. That was the nadir part.

Then my wife said, “Put on the Gypsy Kings.”

She had told me that Tristan liked the Gypsy Kings but I thought that was crazy. It’s good music, but it ain’t no lullaby. The Gypsy Kings album that we have makes me think of a restaurant, after hours, with all the tables pushed to the side so that drunk men can enjoy the dancing of reminiscing women and even drunker men.

I suspected that if this album had any calming affect at all on Tristan, it was more like the affect speed has on ADD children, revving her up to the point of exhaustion. In this particular instance, I worried that since Tristan was just getting started, we would have a lot screaming and crying before we got any calming.

But as the guitars began playing, Tristan’s cries began to sputter. And before I could close my gapping maw, her cries had died out, altogether. And thus, my wife proved that she could teach Karp a thing or two about making her babies happy.

 

Talent

When Marcel was just a ghostly figure on a sonogram, I used to joke that I only wanted her born “beautiful, talented and smart.” One friend, correcting me, told me that she only “hoped for ten fingers and ten toes.” My response to that was that I’d give “a finger or toe” for “beautiful, talented and smart” because if you have all that, then nine fingers or nine toes isn’t a turn off, but a conversation starter.

Well, Marcel is here now, and we know that her ten fingers and ten toes are beautiful and smart. The suspense, now, is only over what’s their talent.

Maybe it’s photography.

One day, Marcel kept screaming and screaming but nothing we did would console her. We checked her diaper, tried to feed her, swaddled and shushed her, but nothing worked until we happened to put her down on the bed near a pile of torn out magazine pages.

Once we put her down, she reached and grabbed at those pages with a fury and excitement that was really, very surprising. She loved it! It got to the point where pages, not pacifiers, were the trick to satisfy her.

Or maybe it’s musical instruments.

For Marcel’s first birthday, my youngest sister got Marcel a mini electric keyboard, complete with microphone. Marcel loved that thing. She’d turn it on, click on one of the tempos (samba, anyone), plaster her mouth on the mic and raise the roof.

Later, she would sit with my dad at his piano and watch him play or bang away at the keys, herself. It got to the point where she’d look for music, anywhere. When looking to purchase a new house, she ran through a house turning on the clock radio, the boom box and even opened the baby grand piano, all the while screaming, “Music! Music!”

Now, though, I think it’s singing.

I’ve been trying to teach Marcel the “A,B,C” song for months. All I ever got for it, however, was a blank stare.

Maybe she thought I was trying to put her to bed, like when I sing her “Amazing Grace” at bedtime. Even though she didn’t grab my mouth to shut me up so she could get some rest as she sometimes did at bedtime, she still wasn’t overly eager to get involved. She just stared.

Thanks to a few weeks of Fancy Day Care, though, she now joins right in (except for that very difficult part, “L,M,N,O,P”). Just the other day, she even taught me a new song.

Hold the rail/Let’s stay safe!

I’m told this is the walking up the stairs song.

Here’s to hoping they have a “Bring daddy breakfast in bed” song.

 

Favorite Sounds v.3

Marcel has adopted a few signature sayings. Their meanings are not always obvious, so I’m including translations. I’m sure this list will change over time. For now, though, it is:

Neo: Cousin Nilo.

Apasie: Pacifier.

Mon: Come on.

Mere: Come here.

Shicken: Chicken

Boon: Balloon.

Fou-wer: Flower.

Ooh are you doing? (Often said with expression of extreme confusion and concern): “What are you doing?”

I be back!: “I’m going to leave your presence so I can do something you don’t want me to do.”

Stay!: “Seriously. I be back.”

Grandpa: Grandpa.

Grandpa: Grandma.

Oh, god. (Said quietly, to herself): I’m not quite sure what this means and, frankly, I’m too scared to ask.

 

Favorite Sounds v.2

“Shit.”

That was Marcel’s first curse word. At least, that’s what I thought she said. I wasn’t 100 percent sure, though, and decided to ignore it as the accidental blabber of a two year old.

Then she said it again.

“Shit.”

This time I looked at my wife to see if I was hearing right. It just so happened that she was looking at me to see if she were hearing right. It was clear that we both heard something, but, perhaps because we didn’t want to hear what we had heard, we remained unsure. So we went to instant replay.

“Marcel. What did you say?”

“Shit. Shit. Hurry up!”

Those were Marcel’s third and fourth curse words.

Before you laugh, please realize that it sounded like gunfire in the distance. She spit them out in a low voice, with great urgency and agitation. In the best of circumstances, saying it that way, with that inflection, is scary, but from a two year old, it’s down right ominous.

I guess it’s my own fault. Now, I don’t mean to say that she hears me say that. I’m not afraid to admit I have a sailor’s vocabulary. In fact, I’m a connoisseur of all types of vulgarities. Since Marcel was born, however, and when I’m in her presence especially, I have no reason to swear like that. I might emit a very pleased “shiiiiiiiiiiiit” from time to time, but not gunfire obscenity.

This long weekend, however, was spent in the town where I was born. It’s the home of my mother’s family. Several cousins have children her age. There are lots of things that would excite her.

It was particularly exciting to bring her that weekend. My grandmother is rebuilding her home after a tornado ripped through the town and her living room. Moreover, she wasn’t just rebuilding but was expanding and adding new landscaping.

More importantly, it was a family reunion of the descendants of my great, great grandparents and their five daughters. I was eager to see the family, and was hopeful that I’d meet people I’d only known from old stories.

As I expected, Marcel was having a grand time. It seemed like every moment we spent in our motel room, she was scratching at the door trying to get back out to see the people and the house—to see her people and to see her house.

She had gotten so caught up in the excitement that at the end of one evening, when people were cleaning up for the next day, she grabbed a mop, started sweeping and, when someone tried to take the mop, batted away their hand and grandly exclaimed, “I working”, which were new words, too.

So, if she was excited enough to bat hands to work for this event, in this town for this family, then I shouldn’t be surprised that she’d be willing to kick our butt a little bit to get there quicker. Maybe, I should be a little proud.

 

Favorite Sounds

Pat. Pat. Pat.

That, to me, is a wonderful sound. It’s the sound of my daughter, Marcel, walking through the house.

Everybody in my home (we also rent out our English basement) loves that sound (somehow, it’s the only sound that floats between the main house and the rental unit).

Pat. Pat. Pat.

It’s the first sound I hear in the morning. It means Marcel has awakened and is coming to join my wife and I in our bed for a glorious, morning snuggle. It means, even more gloriously, that she isn’t in a crib anymore and can get into our bed without me fighting with my wife over which one of us has to get up to get her. (Finally, I get to have both my bed and my baby, every time!)

Sometimes nature calls before Marcel does and I hear that wonderful sound from my throne. If I’m really lucky, I next hear Marcel whine for me. I just love that, in no small part because, on those days, my wife has to concede that I’m the star for the day.

Once, when Marcel was only a ghostly figure on the sonogram, my wife and I were daydreaming what life would be like with her. I teased my wife that our days would be filled with the adoration of the world’s biggest fan.

“Mommy, mommy, mommy!”, I screamed and acted out what were sure to be Marcel’s breathless calls for attention by running up to my wife’s very pregnant butt with tickling fingers and laughter.

“Mommy, mommy, mommy!”, in turn, somehow gave my very pregnant wife the energy to giggle, hop and squeal.

“Mommy, mommy, mommy”, I yelled, and “giggle, hop, squeal”, she went until I caught the wife and, in my best daughter imitation, whispered…

“Where’s Daddy?”

The giggling, hopping and squealing stopped, but not my cackling.

I love to hear that sound.