Kid's first music

I really resonated with this report on NPR the other day about people making the choice of the first music to expose their children to after they are born.  I'm a music lover, so this is something on which I too spent quite a bit of attention.  The guy in the interview said he chose John Coltrane's A Love Supreme.  I must commend this choice, for the same reasons that the Church of St. John Coltrane use his music as a prophetic gift to the world.  

For Wesley's birth at the UCLA Medical Center, I chose another prophet, and brought the whole Songs of Freedom box set to the hospital to listen to while waiting for Wesley to be born.   I remember a tall pretty nurse with

 braids smiling and commending our choice.  The doc asked to turn it down at a particularly intense moment (Wesley had to have a vacuum assisted delivery), and after Wesley finally came into the world and I got around to turning it back up, Bob was singing "Everything's Gonna be alright, Everything's gonna be alright."  That was serendipitous.  Both of my kids had a healthy dose of reggae in utero and afterwards.  I found the old headphones my dad had for our record player, and I'd put them on

 Lara's belly for a bit of music time.  After Wesley was born, we had 10 songs we'd sing him at night, including Beach Boy's Barbara Ann (which we changed to "Wea, Wea, Wea, Wea, Wesley G.  He's all right by me e e.") and Summertime from Porgy and Bess.   He also heard Bob Marley's Thank You Lord.  That's kind of his evening prayer song.  He ended up singing that one and Deep and Wide, and Into my Heart (like I did as a kid) as prayer songs.  Almost every night, he also listens to a CD of lullabies that Katherine gave us when he was born .

  

For a while, we were going to name Julianna Susanna, and I enjoyed playing for her Dandy Livingstone's Susanne Beware of the Devil in utero.  But we went with Julianna instead, and I have yet to think of a song called Julianna.  Sometimes I sing to her Fleetwood Mac's Rhiannon 

substituting Julianna for Rhiannon.  I knew what I wanted to play for her as soon as we first knew we were having a girl though: Stevie Wonder's Isn't She Lovely?  That one's made to sing to a baby girl after all.  

We didn't bring music into the hospital for her, so she only heard silence for her first day or so, then listened to that in the car on the way home from Tulsa.  Since then, she also really seems to like the 40's on 4 on Sirius radio.  That's what we listen to most of the time as we prepare dinner and eat.  It seems to make things taste better.  

Perhaps the appreciation of music will be something my kids can pick up from me.  I used to love sitting by the record player and listening to my mom and dad's Stevie Wonder and John Denver and Jackson Browne and Crosby, Stills, and Nash and Aretha Franklin.  Every time we go to Eureka Springs, I hear Ann Murray.  My first records were Thrller, John Denver and the Muppets, and the soundtrack to the Fox and the Hound.  I also had the Hands Across America benefit album.  Hahaha.  I went to "Hands across America" by the way.  Was I in line with any of my readers?  

  I look forward to finding out what sounds have imprinted themselves on the minds of my children.  Perhaps this kind of environment building is important to me because I hope those imprints are something beautiful.  

Do you have first songs for your kids?  Any first songs you recall?  Comment away!

Thank you God, for stealing my precious gold ring from the pirates and giving it to me.

That was my prayer, five minutes ago, at the behest of Wesley.  

We were washing his hands, and I explained that you always had to wash your hands after going to the bathroom.  It is one of the rules.  

"And Dod made the rules?"

"Yes, God made the rules about cleanliness so that we wouldn't get sick."  

That seemed to be an acceptable reason to wash hands.

Then,

"Why can your ring get wet?"  

"Becasue it's made of gold, and gold doesn't rust." 

"Oh, that's why pirates like gold."  

"They sure do, don't they? It's a precious metel that everyone wants."

"Dod must have stoled your ring from the pirates and given it to you.  That's nice.  You should pray to Dod and tell Dod thank you."  

all hell

sitting here, blogging 1-handed

listening to the 40s on 4 (sirius radio) through the baby monitor while Julianna gnaws on my thumb.   

Somehow, the all hell I thought was about to break loose is staying in the can.  Perhaps God is tapping my soul like I tap the top of a Coke can after it has been shook up.   

Garrison Keillor had some good insights on Writer's Almanac.

I love the "Lies My Mother Told Me" poem by Elizabeth Thomas, especially the part about God "ratting you out" and "exaggerating."  That's good.  I sometimes wonder if life after death is completely and utterly open.  Whatever we hide or bear is common knowledge not only to God, but among the new fellowship.  We are open books.   Maybe that's how we find ourselves in heaven or hell.  If so, no doubt there's grace to see things in perspective.  

I also liked the quotes from the late birthday boy Herb Caen.  

 "Isn't it nice that people who prefer Los Angeles to San Francisco live there?"

As an Angeleno who loved San Francisco too, I can see the humor there--NoCal people just love looking down their noses at SoCal.  I think it's equivalent to Arkansans hating Texans--it is something that gives us Arkies a bit of passion, but the Texans don't really care.  It isn't reciprocated.   They love themselves too much to be distracted by any cultural vehemence.  My good friend and girlfriend from my first year in college was a Dallasite who was genuinely surprised that I hadn't taken "Texas history" in high school (in SW Arkansas).  It is that kind of oblivious state pride that makes Texans humorous and charming.  

All hell breaking loose had to do with dealing with this wreck and the purchase of a new car,lots of travel, helping a family experiencing grief and strife over the loss of a loved one and funeral planning, getting the Vundo computer virus, annoying changes to a book title I've contributed a chapter to, preparing for Holy Week and other commitments...It just seems like things kept piling up.  

Last night Wesley knelt by his bed and prayed.  He thanked God for "mommie and daddy and sister and grandmama and grandaddy and gammy and papi and all my toys."  He told Lara she needed to pray to, then he told me I should pray as well.  I prayed that God would help us be good to each other because some of us were stressed out.  

Later that night, the vundo virus was just gone from the computer.  Perhaps it's a virtual miracle.  

Disgusting

Wesley was at the sink washing his hands so he could sprinkle the brown sugar on his oatmeal lunch.  He was commenting on the "different little square bar of soap" I had put in my bag after a recent hotel stay and brought home to use.  (Waste not, want not!)   I reach around his little four year old frame perched on a "stepp-n stool" and grab some Burt's Bees Banana hand salve sitting in the windowsill.  I put it on my knuckles and wonder if Wesley knows the smell of bananas well enough to pick up the aroma.  He doesn't really go for them, so I doubt it.  I hold the little jar under his nose,

 "What does that smell like?"  

"It smells like disgusting," he says matter-of-factly.  He  pronounces the g so hard it is almost a c.  

I look at him with a smirk, then just to clarify: "You mean you don't like it?"  

"That's right." 

Then we look out the window.  Our calico, Lao-Tzu, is crouching in the big 12x18 hole that was dug yesterday for a new back porch.  Like a soldier in a trench, she's peering her head over the edge of the hole at two robins.  She springs up into action and darts at the birds, but gets there too late.  Part of the ground had previously been covered by a smaller slab of concrete.  

"You know why those birds want to root around in that dirt?" I ask. 

He nods and looks at me with bright brown eyes.  

"Because there are lots of worms and bugs that used to live under that concrete that used to be there, and now the birds can get to them!" I say.  

Then I realize Lao-Tzu is prowling the area like a lion waiting at a watering hole.  We open the door and call her back in.  The birds come back to the Shangrila pretty quickly and we sit there watching them hop around and  pull worms out of ground.  

Beware the Ides of March

Over Wesley's past three birthdays, we've found ourselves covered in puke (2nd), getting Wesley stitches in his chin (3rd), and this year with Lara in the ER the night before his party. Beware the ides of March, indeed. Lara was hit in Tulsa by a little old lady: Not physically punched,(that would be interesting) but rammed into by the other lady's car. I told the church that was one more reason they could think of Lara as Wonderwoman, since she evidently has an invisible car like Wonderwoman has an invisible jet. Thankfully, she's okay with some burns from the airbag and soreness. But now we're dealing with purchasing another car just a few months after already buying a car. Hooray.

Is God mean like Captain Hook?

Actually, "is Dod mean like Captain hook," asked Wesley (with his mouth full of Cocoa Puffs) as he thrust his crow's nest from his pirate ship at me across the dinner table.

"No," I said, "God is really nice." (Even though my recent sermon prep. has taken me through Leviticus and Joshua, so I kind of smirked at my own simple answer, considering if I were a Canaanite, I would indeed think God was like Captain Hook, or worse, but hey, the kid's three.)

"Because God loves us?" asked/stated Wesley, more a statement to be confirmed than a question to be answered.

"Yes, God loves us very much."

"But Captain Hook doesn't love anybody?"

"Hmmm.. I don't know. Maybe he loves Smee. But, do you think anyone loves Captain Hook?"

"I don't know."

"Well, maybe that's his problem! Maybe he just wants to be loved."

"Like Darth Bader?"

"Mmmm hmmm, like Darth Vader."

(Wesley wanted to see what Darth "Bader" looked like under his mask, so I cued up the scene from Return of the Jedi, and it opened up a whole world for Wesley about how sometimes villains are good on the inside and just need to be loved. I've always loved the bad guys.)

Between the A and the T

I picked up Wesley the other day from the Creek Nation Daycare, and he asked, "Where's mommie.....at?" It was like the "at" was tacked on at the end of the sentence like he was developing a more sophisticated way of communicating. I had to choke back the urge to correct his grammar. It sounded horrible. I was thinking, "where in the hell did he learn that at?"


(J/K) I was thinking, "where in the hell did he learn that?" I rephrased the question--"Where's mommie? She's at work, son." I did the same thing for the youth on the mission trip, except I was more direct.
Youth: "Where's the hammer at?"
Me: "It is superfluous to ask, 'Where's the hammer at?" "Where's the hammer?" works just fine, doesn't it?"
Youth, in her own mind: "What is superfluous?" or "Whatever."
Me, in my own head, imagining what she is saying in her own head: "Wow, he's right! I think I remember that from some 4th grade English class. Maybe I'll start valuing my education by actually using it in day to day life!"
I wonder if my own personal mission to help the youth speak English stuck with them. It is such an epidemic--and I don't think it is just regional. I remember it in L A too. I think it is just people becoming lazy with their speech. It drives me nucking futs!

Of course, on the other hand, I don't speak or type perfect with perfect grammar either, and it is really annoying to hear people correcting other people's grammar. One of my favorite quotes I think is from designing women, and Suzanne I think is being corrected by Julia. Suzanne says something like, "where's my makeup brush at?" and Julia lets her know she sounds like an uneducated something or other for ending her sentence in a preposition. So Suzanne retorts, "Okay, where's my makeup brush at....beeeiiitch!"