Having a baby around means you do a lot of things you wouldn’t normally do, like everyone now does a fair amount of dancing and singing. The singing is supposed to be good for Baby Man to learn how to speak, which we would eventually like to happen, though I don’t know how much he can learn from my family. My mother tries to sing and demonstrate “Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes,” but just ends up melting into wild giggles, making her incomprehensible, wildly entertaining, and probably just a touch confusing for someone learning English. (Plus on “toes,” she touches her calves. Just saying, Ma.)
I try to sing the songs day care tells us he digs, e.g., “Wheels on the Bus,” “Baby Bumblebee.” I googled lyrics and distributed to Husband and others to study. (Yes, it’s as nerdy as it sounds. I am not like Husband. I have to study lyrics or I make up new .) Only recently, has Baby Man begun to participate himself. He does a fair amount of chair dancing, which I heartily approve of, and has begun to sing along with me — which is hilarious and incredibly distracting, because he sounds like Frankenstein from the Gene Wilder movie. There’s sometimes a little spoken word element with (speaking the “Oh” in “Old MacDonald Had a Farm”) but it’s mostly a wind-whistling-through-an-octogenarian’s-throat-for-the-first-time sound we get from him, so I very have to often sing at like shout level to not get derailed.
I do it for the baby. I’m such a dedicated mother.