Monday, April 9, 2012

Lullabies

C has taken to singing "All the Pretty Horses" at night as she falls asleep. I lie next to her in bed and sing along in a funny voice to keep myself from melting into a puddle.

T must have taught it to her. I didn't even know this song before I she was born. It wasn't in my family's repertoire. I think of it as being somewhat more American than we are. I've imagined my forbears on westbound, oceangoing vessels and on foot, trudging through Ellis Island or walking to the mill, lunchpail in hand but, somehow, I've never pictured any of them atop or behind a horse. We're city folk. We don't sing about horses, pretty or otherwise.

...goooo to slee-eep little bay-bee...when you waaaake, you shall have, aaaaall the pretty, little, horse-ses...

Maybe it's because I picture T hearing this song as a little baby with his young, shell-shocked parents. Or maybe it's just just the way C sings it with such commitment in her warbly little voice. Whatever the reason, this song destroys me every time.

If this were an old-fashioned, pen-and-ink journal, you'd see little smeary teardrops all over this page.

I'm assuming that this song is actually about a baby who doesn't want to stop playing with toy horses ahead of naptime. And mom or dad is just doing the normal parent bargaining thing--you can play with them again after your nap, for Pete's sake! Or, hell, maybe it's real horses and a coach and six was a common household possession back in the day, like a pre-Industrial Revolution version of the SUV. I'm a little out of my depth here.

When I hear it, I picture dozens of horses frolicking alongside a sun-dappled pond and it feels so...aspirational. Less 'Mommy needs you to sleep so that she can fold the laundry' and more 'Great things await you, baby. Mommy is going to work on securing your marvelous future while you take a little nap.'

****

I want amazing things for C. I'd crawl across hot coals and broken glass and killer bees to get her those horses or anything she wants.

But mostly, I want her to keep waking up.

I want to believe that she will always wake up.

****

I've always been a little bit nuts. When I was 4, I did not want anyone else picking out my clothes (or my jewelry). I can't tolerate noisy chewing or gratuitous hugging. I eat my M&Ms in a very specific order and, yes, I will share, but, no, you cannot have any of the red ones. Much to T's (and C's) disappointment, I can't quite say "I love you" without tacking a sigh onto the end. You know, that sigh that transforms it into something more like, "I love you, ok? Please don't make me say it."

In short, there were so many other, better, old-fashioned ways I could have screwed my daughter(s) up. I can almost imagine an alternate future where C and R gripe about me in a late-night, wine-fueled bitch session or an even more distant future where they gather all of their own kids around and laugh about me and my strange ways.

I fantasize about them together, ganging up on me and bruising my feelings a bit. I can't believe it will never happen. That they will never know each other. That I couldn't keep them together.

I want my old, garden-variety failures back.

I want a bright future for C but I mostly want to erase the sad parts of her past.

****

She wants me to sing the song to her while I rock her like a baby. I do the best I can, breathing slowly, taking long pauses, and thinking about mundane tasks to avoid thinking about how it was when she actually was a baby.

Her legs stick out at a ridiculous angle and my knees ache from her weight. She's all sharp angles and muscles now.

"Where did I put my arms then?" she asks and I struggle to remember.

"Your arms were shorter. You were mostly greedy eyes and an open mouth. I could hold you in one hand."

She smiles and does her best to tuck her arms in and make her eyes wider. I remember willing her to grow, trying to imagine her one year, two years, three years older, believing that she'd be safe once she wasn't a baby anymore.

"Was I teeny as a crumb?"

"Teenier"

She smiles. She likes to hear me talk about how special she was. R doesn't really exist for her. I have to remember that. She has very limited ideas of before and a whole lot of after stretched out ahead of her.

"Keep singing."

I fight my way through but it's a lost cause.

"Mama, are you crying?"

"Just because I'm happy, boo-boo."

15 comments:

  1. It's late here so this comment may not make too much sense. But this post made all the sense in the world to me.

    The commitment in the warble, your C, she breaks my heart across the ocean.

    And how I want to secure the glittering future, I don't mind the hot coals or the killer bees but it is this world, the right choice, the way through it in all its complexity, that undoes me. I want it for J so keenly. I want to fight but I don't know who it is that I need to crush, to make it so for her.

    And I can say "I love you" with no additions at all. But it only makes them sigh. And even little R too if he could formulate a sigh. Disappointed by my neediness I suspect. We can't win.

    I eat my Smarties in a specific order too and woe betide those who interfere with my vision. You have to even up the colours and then eat them quickly as possible once you have disturbed the equilbrium ;)

    I love that vision of two girls, griping about their insane parents into the night. My sister and I do that. My dad always moaned (moans) about us using excessive amounts of water during tooth brushing. That is the kind of thing that I want J to moan about. With G preferably. Ah, I still can't believe it either. That I couldn't keep them together.

    But I hope J feels the same way as C. Special. With a whole lot of after ahead of her. That is what I want. Thank you Tracy and C and R and T.

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    1. This made plenty of sense, as always. Oh, Catherine W, you're like some shadow version of me, living through similar events but smarter and more thoughtful with better hair--the Mystic to my Skekzy.

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  2. I love the conversations you have with C, the ideas she comes up with - "teeny as a crumb" somehow conjures up all kinds of ideas of deep love and wild hope and vulnerability. I love getting this glimpse of you together, of some of the ways you let her know she is special.

    All the Pretty Little Horses has always struck me as one of the saddest lullabies. I'm not sure why - something is going on behind the words in that song, though. Maybe it's because the words hint at that bright future but the melody seems so much more knowing and sad.

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    1. Thank you and it is such a sad song. According to wikipedia ('always there, sometimes right') it's an African-American lullaby that dates back to the days of slavery. Apparently it's about babies crying for their mothers who were away taking care of the master's kids. Imagine the pangs of motherly regret in that scenario. No wonder it's so damned depressing.

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    2. ('always there, sometimes right')

      HOWL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

      Nice on a Monday morning!

      Cathy in Missouri

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  3. OMG, if this were a journal, it would be illegible from my tears. Children singing adult songs breaks my heart open. I can't even grasp the emotion. You get to it, aspirational, or something else that wrecks me. And your conversations, God, yes. It conjures deep love and wild hope, as erica said. Love that phrase.

    I am so not American that I don't even know that lullaby...I love your writing. And I won't make you uncomfortable will all kinds of lovey stuff, but you are really swell too.

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    1. I'm getting there with the lovey stuff. T has softened me up over the past 12 years and C broke something open in me that will probably never close. And you and erica are both correct--deep love and wild hope. A hope so wild that I can't seem to make it stick around.

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  4. Tears

    Do not dry all your tears.
    Wear the best of them,
    they are your badge, even
    as they dry.

    {D. Groothuis}

    *****

    Never, ever actually heard this song until yesterday. Thanks to you and YouTube.

    Your daughter is no ordinary child, you know that --?

    I should say, as is true, your daughter*s* are not ordinary.

    No more are you, sighing included.

    "Was I teeny as a crumb?"

    "Teenier"

    Oh~~

    Cathy in Missouri

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    1. They are a badge, aren't they?

      Hope you enjoyed the song and didn't drown your keyboard in a wave of tears--maybe it's just me.

      And I don't suppose she is ordinary but then, who is, really?

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  5. Third time through at twenty past midnight. Beautiful stuff here.

    My Stella sings Let It Be almost every night I put her to bed. I want to freeze every ounce of her voice and hide it under my ear like a computer chip.

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    1. Oh, no. If C starts singing the Beatles I might melt into a puddle. We went through a phase with "Dust in the Wind" and it was a little more than I could take.

      With that said, I did record C singing "All the Pretty Horses" on my iphone.

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  6. Oh, this post is dripping with love and beauty.
    xo

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  7. Gosh I can't handle noisy chewers either. This post is just so gorgeous and true. I can hear your bedtime routine in my head. It's difficult to carry these emotions, the weight of what these songs and rituals and routines mean when these little people are just SINGING A DAMN SONG, MOM.

    Anyway. I sing "I'd Do Anything" (from "Oliver!") to O before bedtime and I can't get through it.

    I wish both your girls were ganging up on you right now, Tracy. It is so hard to believe they are not. Thank you, and I'm sorry for the late reply.
    xo

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    1. That is totally C's reaction when I get all teary. She just pats me on the head and tells me that it's ok. She also tells me when the sad parts are coming up in her favorite movies. Apparently my dam is permanently breached.

      I think you're very brave to attempt to sing anything. I can only really listen.

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