Sing-a-Long Mommy

I love to sing. I’ve got a large bank of songs in memory, and every day I come across something that evokes a line or a melody. It’s hard for me not to vocalize what tickles my brain at that moment. My husband uses the phrase “our house” or points out the cat in the yard? I sing the chorus of “Our House” by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young. I hear in a bit of TV dialogue that “it’s been” an amount of time since a thing happened? I launch into “One Week” by the Barenaked Ladies, but stop after the first two words because that’s the one bit I heard and needed to get out of my head, and also I don’t know most of the other lyrics.

My son actively hates this. He doesn’t just grimace or grumble, but protests loudly. Sometimes I’ll make up my own lyrics, partly for my own amusement but also in hopes that it will make my kid laugh in spite of himself. (His dad does it too, mostly by substituting the word “fart” here and there.) When I tried to get him into the bath last night, I pulled out some “K-Pop Demon Hunters” and sang: “I’m done waiting / Now I’m bathing / Like I’m boooorn to beeee!” Then: “Gonna be, gonna be bath time.” And: “I was alone, I was dirty (hah) / Didn’t know (how) / To get clean”.

Did I get a token of appreciation for this witty parody? Nope, I got a sour puss and an aggravated, “Stop. Stooooop!!” In his defense, maybe he just didn’t want to hear one of his favorite songs butchered.

I could only laugh. My kid has a dorky mom and a dorky dad, and his anger only fuels us. Dorky Mom also thinks she has a moderately okay singing voice and enjoys using it in the sanctuary of home. I get that it’s self-indulgent, albeit innocent, and could be annoying. My own mom, a former theater kid, used to break out into song frequently, and I don’t think my dad, brother and I always understood why. Now I’m fully on board and I join her whenever possible, although most of our mental song libraries are from different generations.

So I understand where my son and I are in the circle of life. He liked my singing lullabies when he was very little, and used to request “Rock-a-Bye Baby” even when he was an early kindergartener. He either didn’t notice or didn’t care when I sang snippets of other stuff around the house. Now he’s just irritable about it and probably will remain so until he’s twenty-one. That’s perfectly normal and I will lean into it with Dorky Mom vigor.

But Gentle Mom is still there. He and I were goofing around on the couch one evening, a few weeks ago, when he got tired of squirming around and lapsed into a rare moment of quiet. His body was draped over my legs. My knees were bent and I started moving them back and forth, taking his body along with them as if I were a rocking chair. I sang “Rock-a-Bye Baby”, and in the dim light, I swore that I saw his face grow soft and his eyes lock into mine. That’s how I know my baby boy is still in there too.