Singing on a Sunday Night
Tonight I am sitting at my kitchen table, dinner dishes wiped clean and moved to a pile in the sink, laptop open in front of me with the current work in progress staring at me in it un-finished state, and my son--with more than a city of dinosaurs, Disney Toy Story, trucks, cars, and Thomas the Tank Engine figurines spread in front of him--happily serenading me to his favorite song of the day--Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star. I've lost count, but I think this is the 12th time he has sang it in a row for me. In between each rendition he continues the story of the characters before him.
"Hi Mommy," the three hog tied green Martian says to large squeaky one, "We're tired."
"That's okay," says the mommy Martian.
"Let me help," the T-Rex roars from the far side of the table.
"Or you can go for a ride," Thomas chimes in, "Whoo, hoo!"
And the conversation continues a bit longer--until again--he breaks out into a chorus of Twinkle, Twinkle.
When my son was little (under 18 months) I thought he was ALWAYS be attached to my hip being rocked, sung too, or nursing. It was impossible that this little THING that I sometimes referred to as the leech were to grow up into a self-occupying toddler. But, he did. And quickly. And it makes me more than warm and fuzzy inside, it makes me proud.
"I'm Buzz Lightyear!" Buzz hollers as he makes the adventure from the toy basket in the corner to the table, flying at top speed, "Buzz to the rescue!" He swoops onto the table, takes the Martians and Thomas and flies off to the living room to watch football with Dad. And Me? I continue to sit at the table, typing pages away, and listen to the new song for the living room--Old McDonald--and the giggles between football plays on television.
"Hi Mommy," the three hog tied green Martian says to large squeaky one, "We're tired."
"That's okay," says the mommy Martian.
"Let me help," the T-Rex roars from the far side of the table.
"Or you can go for a ride," Thomas chimes in, "Whoo, hoo!"
And the conversation continues a bit longer--until again--he breaks out into a chorus of Twinkle, Twinkle.
When my son was little (under 18 months) I thought he was ALWAYS be attached to my hip being rocked, sung too, or nursing. It was impossible that this little THING that I sometimes referred to as the leech were to grow up into a self-occupying toddler. But, he did. And quickly. And it makes me more than warm and fuzzy inside, it makes me proud.
"I'm Buzz Lightyear!" Buzz hollers as he makes the adventure from the toy basket in the corner to the table, flying at top speed, "Buzz to the rescue!" He swoops onto the table, takes the Martians and Thomas and flies off to the living room to watch football with Dad. And Me? I continue to sit at the table, typing pages away, and listen to the new song for the living room--Old McDonald--and the giggles between football plays on television.
