Just call me Julie Andrews.
I’m no one trick pony. I’m a triple threat; I can sing, dance AND act. Okay. I can hum a tune, drunk dance AND act nasty – but only if you park in a disabled spot and you aren’t disabled. grrrrrr.
Thank goodness for children. They think you are God’s gift to entertainment. My baby, Ieuan, adores me in much the same way as the Beatles experienced on their first tour of America. And, May can spend hours, literally, singing with me. See! She thinks I can sing!
Our concerts consist of “ahhhhh” hitting the same note over and over again. Sometimes, our collaborations vary with me patting her mouth or flicking her lips with my finger making “ahhhhh” into a pseudo Indian war-cry. She loves it! Plus, we are almost always cuddling while we do this. We both love that!
Tonight, I thought I’d go for some extreme singing and pull out that old Julie Andrew’s classic Do-Re-Mi. When that got no response, I cut out the middle man and just did scales.
In one of those miraculous moments that mothers like me wait months for, music therapy paid off tonight. I set to moving up the scales. May remained on the lower end of the octave. When I reached the top, she stopped. She listened as I screeched through the higher notes. Then, she laughed herself silly.
Now, you might say that she had a revelation about her tone-deaf mama. However, as I sang my way up and down the scales once more, she started singing with me, still on her lower note. As I peaked shakily at the top, she changed her note and squeaked along with me. I stopped. She laughed herself silly again. I did it again. She did it again.
May is listening and trying to match my sounds. She is a gorgeous little diva in the tradition of Mariah Carey. Better than Mariah, because May is testing out a new form of communication – call and response - and Mariah just likes the classic combo of squeaking out high notes while wearing a boob tube.
Sometimes May just astounds me.