I sing. I mean, I make up songs about whatever we’re doing or something I’m thinking, and I sing it to them.
With Big J, we used to sing entire conversations back and forth. I can still remember coming back from an OB appointment, driving up Broad Street in downtown Columbus, Ohio, with my then-three-year-old in his seat behind me, singing a conversation back and forth. Precious.
This morning, after bathing Small Papoose, I just started in, singing an impromptu song about I-can’t-even-remember what right now; probably about baths and wet hair and birdie legs. Or something like that.
“Mama, sing about my Sunday pants and my Sunday socks,” he said, sounding interested. (For him, “these are a few of his favorite things” in the world.)
So I did. I sang a song about Sunday socks and Sunday pants and Sunday shoes and going to class and having a smile. And then he did it. Very awkwardly and sounding like a three-year-old, he sang about things that were important to him. It was darling.
In the kitchen, then, I sang a song that went like this:
“You’ve got your blue jeans on,
You’ve got your stripey shirt,
You’ve got two little bare fe-et.
“You’re gonna grab a spoon,
You’re gonna sit right down,
And that boy is gooooonnna eat. Yum-yum-yum!”
He loved it. I loved it. It was a lovely start to what looks to be a hectic day.
And what shall I sing about for you?