Love is Deaf
My voice is not known for its melodic sweetness. In fact, I was tone deaf as a child. This disturbed my family greatly, since my grandmother's beautifully modulated voice was famous for its clarity and sweetness. Everyone in my family sang. All the time. We sang in the car, in the shower, during dinner, whenever a song would strike us.
In a misguided effort to fix my tone deafness and help me develop an "ear", my parents had me take violin lessons. Six years later, I was still tone deaf and they owned stock in Bayer aspirin. I was also loud, a combination that did not endear me to my music teachers or my friends. When a college roommate overheard a boy compliment my singing voice, she exclaimed, "Jeez, love must be deaf as well as blind."
Once, in my salad days, I tried out for a musical play. When I called my parents after the audition, they were very concerned.
"She went to an audition, today," my mother repeated the news to my father.
"Uh-huh," he commented.
"It was a musical."
"A musical?" Even across the telephone lines I could hear his alarm.
"She sang for the audition."
"She sang?" I heard my father walk towards the phone. "Is she okay? Would she like to come home?"
Needless to say, I was wary of all the singing that goes on with a baby in the house. We sing them to sleep; we sing to amuse them or calm them or divert them. Singing is part of a mother's job description.
I worried: was tone deafness a genetic problem? Would listening to my singing destroy my child's chances to become a famous musician or composer? Would I see my infant wince as I sang lullabies? At mommy and me type classes like Gymboree and swimming they expect you to sing along. Would my son and I be ostracized by the other tone appropriate moms and tots?
Shortly after my first was born, I was overcome by an irresistible urge to sing to him. Perhaps there is a singing hormone or gland that compels you to burst into song. I struggled with the old standbys like "Hush little baby, don't say a word" or "ABC". They didn't soothe my little beast. He would scream louder. I tried humming. No response. After much trial and error, I found two tunes guaranteed to help him sleep: "Summertime" from Porgy & Bess and "The Boxer" by Simon & Garfunkel.
I sang them before every nap time and every bed time. I mumbled the part in "Summertime" that went, "your daddy's rich and your mama's good lookin'." Neither being true, I didn't want to unfairly raise my son's expectations of the life that awaited him. I also mumbled several of the lyrics in "The Boxer"; such as the lines about leaving home when still a boy and getting come-ons from the whores. I mean what kind of family values would those songs instill in him? I even fretted about the violent lyrics in "Rock-a-bye-baby" so I changed them. My personal rendition was more effective for quieting my son than the old falling cradle version. Feel free to use mine. The lyrics are:
Rock-a-bye baby
Here in my lap
Your day's been busy
So you need a nap
Mommy's exhausted
Needs some rest too
So go to sleep baby
And I will love you.
Worked like a charm. Years later, it still does. Sometimes, when my son is ill or unable to sleep, he’ll ask for a chorus of "The Boxer" and he’ll sing along about the "common form of hose on Seventh Avenue". He thinks it’s about a hydrant and I’m not about to disagree with him.
With all this improv concertizing going on, I was paranoid about being overheard. When nap or bedtime arrived, I would spirit my son away to his room, close the door and turn off the monitor. My voice is deep and I sang low so no hallway eavesdroppers could catch me singing. This approach worked well for several months until the fateful night arrived when I forgot to shut off the monitor.
Farrell was very fussy and required two run-throughs of "Summertime", the full version of "The Boxer" and, for good measure, a clumsy version of Billie Holiday's "Hush Now, Don't Explain", a blues number about a woman wronged by her cheating man. Finally, croaking with exhaustion, he fell asleep in my arms and I successfully transferred him to the crib.
Quietly, so as not to disturb my sleeping husband, I crept back into my now cold side of the bed and lay down. My husband threw an arm over me and snuggled closer. "That was great. I love listening to you sing to him."
My roommate was right. Love IS deaf as well as blind.
In a misguided effort to fix my tone deafness and help me develop an "ear", my parents had me take violin lessons. Six years later, I was still tone deaf and they owned stock in Bayer aspirin. I was also loud, a combination that did not endear me to my music teachers or my friends. When a college roommate overheard a boy compliment my singing voice, she exclaimed, "Jeez, love must be deaf as well as blind."
Once, in my salad days, I tried out for a musical play. When I called my parents after the audition, they were very concerned.
"She went to an audition, today," my mother repeated the news to my father.
"Uh-huh," he commented.
"It was a musical."
"A musical?" Even across the telephone lines I could hear his alarm.
"She sang for the audition."
"She sang?" I heard my father walk towards the phone. "Is she okay? Would she like to come home?"
Needless to say, I was wary of all the singing that goes on with a baby in the house. We sing them to sleep; we sing to amuse them or calm them or divert them. Singing is part of a mother's job description.
I worried: was tone deafness a genetic problem? Would listening to my singing destroy my child's chances to become a famous musician or composer? Would I see my infant wince as I sang lullabies? At mommy and me type classes like Gymboree and swimming they expect you to sing along. Would my son and I be ostracized by the other tone appropriate moms and tots?
Shortly after my first was born, I was overcome by an irresistible urge to sing to him. Perhaps there is a singing hormone or gland that compels you to burst into song. I struggled with the old standbys like "Hush little baby, don't say a word" or "ABC". They didn't soothe my little beast. He would scream louder. I tried humming. No response. After much trial and error, I found two tunes guaranteed to help him sleep: "Summertime" from Porgy & Bess and "The Boxer" by Simon & Garfunkel.
I sang them before every nap time and every bed time. I mumbled the part in "Summertime" that went, "your daddy's rich and your mama's good lookin'." Neither being true, I didn't want to unfairly raise my son's expectations of the life that awaited him. I also mumbled several of the lyrics in "The Boxer"; such as the lines about leaving home when still a boy and getting come-ons from the whores. I mean what kind of family values would those songs instill in him? I even fretted about the violent lyrics in "Rock-a-bye-baby" so I changed them. My personal rendition was more effective for quieting my son than the old falling cradle version. Feel free to use mine. The lyrics are:
Rock-a-bye baby
Here in my lap
Your day's been busy
So you need a nap
Mommy's exhausted
Needs some rest too
So go to sleep baby
And I will love you.
Worked like a charm. Years later, it still does. Sometimes, when my son is ill or unable to sleep, he’ll ask for a chorus of "The Boxer" and he’ll sing along about the "common form of hose on Seventh Avenue". He thinks it’s about a hydrant and I’m not about to disagree with him.
With all this improv concertizing going on, I was paranoid about being overheard. When nap or bedtime arrived, I would spirit my son away to his room, close the door and turn off the monitor. My voice is deep and I sang low so no hallway eavesdroppers could catch me singing. This approach worked well for several months until the fateful night arrived when I forgot to shut off the monitor.
Farrell was very fussy and required two run-throughs of "Summertime", the full version of "The Boxer" and, for good measure, a clumsy version of Billie Holiday's "Hush Now, Don't Explain", a blues number about a woman wronged by her cheating man. Finally, croaking with exhaustion, he fell asleep in my arms and I successfully transferred him to the crib.
Quietly, so as not to disturb my sleeping husband, I crept back into my now cold side of the bed and lay down. My husband threw an arm over me and snuggled closer. "That was great. I love listening to you sing to him."
My roommate was right. Love IS deaf as well as blind.