EVERYTHING
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Fatherhood
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Welcome to my house. Here's a glass of warm milk, with just a touch of honey. You don't have a throat condition, do you? I'm sorry, you didn't expect that question. But I need to know: Do you have laryngitis? Tonsillitis? A really bad voice? Is this too personal? What I'm getting at, (Grandma, Grandpa, babysitter or casual guest), is this: You're going to have to sing. We no longer speak in my house; we sing. And if you're unable or unwilling to tune up the pipes and wail a bit, you'll be feeling left out, ostracized, awkward. You'll be the kid in floods at the big school dance. Our 2-year-old will look at you funny. Ever imagine how it would feel to walk into a big, crowded building and start singing? That's how you'll feel around here if you don't sing. The little boy is the conductor. He'll pick the tune and set the tempo. Last night, my wife and I were trying to get him to sleep. He lay in his bed for a good hour, first laughing, then tossing about, then asking for random things (a cat, a shoe, an egg), and finally he fell silent. Five minutes passed, seven, 10. He must be asleep, we thought. We rose to leave, when: "THERE WAS A FARMER HAD A DOG AND FINGER WAS HIS NAME-O..." Finger? "B-I-N-G-O..." Oh well, the kid can't spell. He can, however, sing. Ask him to call the cat and he sings, ask him to say his name and he sings, ask him to be quiet and he sings. We've been crooning to him since about three seconds after his birth, and the (singing) chickens have come home to roost. He also composes. Occasionally, he's a critic/lyricist, replacing a stanza or two with lines of his own. He can, in fact, replace any line in any song with a line about a car. "You know it's me and you/ and you and me./ No matter how we toss the dice cross the street/ it had to be..." The combination of automotive and musical obsessions can lead a kid places, big places. Close attention to the household Springsteen rotation has alerted my son to the possibilities of trading in a Pink Cadillac at the Cadillac Ranch and leaving in a Stolen Car, followed by a State Trooper. If you don't know those songs, the kid might be a little cross with you. But it's OK. You can always win him over with the Beatles. "Baby you can drive my car." The only thing is, if you say it, you better mean it. Greg Blake Miller of Las Vegas has completed his first novel. He writes the Fatherhood column each month. |
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