I’ve been home for too long and apparently have had too few conversations with adults.
I’ve been off for a few weeks and have spent the majority of that time with a child who only utters a few simple things… more like breaths with some noises attached. He’s experimenting with passing air over his vocal cords.
We’ve had lots of one-sided conversations, most of them in song.
It’s like a chess game with myself… again, in song. “Oh, you’re gonna play the knight I see… then I guess my rook it will have to be.”
Most of these conversations end with me singing, “No more rhymes… I mean it!”
And I wait and wait and wait, but he never answers. So I do and laugh, “Anybody want a peanut!”
I laugh and swear that this is the end of that game, but I get slap-happy, and it starts all over again. I’ll trip over a toy and sing about why Daddy is such a klutz.
The rhymes never make any sense and often start with, “Take it from me, boy…”
And they are never set to a good tune!
I try to get them out to a Dead or a Phish riff or even The Beatles, but my rhythmic abilities stretch only as far as tunes like “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” or “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.” What the hell is that about? I’ve got a wide range of tracks in my head, don’t I? I’ll take a Wiggles mix or even a song about cooking up a grilled cheese with a backdrop of the “Three’s Company” theme over 1940s birthday melodies.
I was able to get a simple verse from “Shakedown Street” the other day. “Eat, eat, eat… yes, it’s time to eat.” But that is where it ends. I’m no singer-songwriter.
In the past, every time I’d attempt to toss trash into a can and miss, I’d remark, “This is why I fly airplanes.”
The same response now applies when I find myself singing a horrid remix to the baby. “This is why I fly airplanes.”
Or rather, it’s, “Take it from me, my boy, this is why I fly planes… yes, just like your toy.”