A Great Injustice

I have to tell you something. This is the saddest thing, and I haven't wanted to admit it, but I've decided it's true. Here goes.... my baby doesn't like it when I sing. sigh. Oh, ok, maybe that's too general a statement. She likes it when I sing "horsey horsey" or "sleep tight, sand-man's a comin'" or anything else a'capella and sweet, baby-ish. But when I sing -- I mean really sing, I mean if my guitar or my piano is involved sing -- she starts to cry. I've been trying to gradually get her used to it, but she just doesn't like it. I think the power and resonance of my voice, at its most passionate (or even just kinda passionate) sounds too much like crying or yelling to her. Maybe it's just too loud (not that can't be it, because it's even if she's on the other side of the room). For whatever reason, it's too much for her.

This makes me so sad. I always imagined singing my heart out to my little girl, and I can't do it. I can't even sing in my own house. Not when she's awake because she cries. Not when she's asleep because it wakes her up. I can't sing. I have been silenced. Because there is nothing so unbearable as doing something that makes your baby look up at you with sweet, clear blue eyes; makes her face turn downward, her eyebrows furrow; makes her bottom lip start to quiver; makes her eyes start to glisten; makes her open her mouth and start to sob. I can't do it.

And so the musician's guitars sit in their hangers collecting dust. The piano languishes toward out-of-tune. My fingers become soft as the callouses heal. Songs remain unsung. Lullabies remain unwritten. My heart continues to bust its seams without expression.

This is so unfair.

Nature Baby

For Mother's Day, we took Seville backpacking. Here she is sleeping to the sound of birds chirping, bees buzzing, a brook babbling nearby, daddy in the background hangin' out at camp. So much fun. You can see the (short) photo album by clicking the image above. Or go see the (even shorter) run-down at my other blog.

Whaddya call it NOW?

We've developed some names for some of Seville's special talents. My personal favorite:

The Snart.

I laugh every time she does it (that is... sneeze and fart simultaneously). I know, I'm so mature. There's also the "fough" and the "farcup" which happen less often, but are equally funny.

Speaking of bodily functions, what are we supposed to call the regular version now that we have a kid? I can't bring myself to refer to Seville as having "farted," nor can I abide the idea of a little child running around using that word. I mean, I've never even been really comfortable with it myself, for gosh sake.

When I was a kid, we called it a "bomb," a word that came from my mother's childhood in an English boarding school. It seemed totally normal to me all my life, but I realize it's weird to most Americans. And it certainly is weird to Jared. Other possibilities that hail from my British relatives include: "fluff" and "dust." I have stories of my stuffy English Grandmother turning up her royal nose and demanding, "did you dust?" (yes, royal. My English side is/was nobility, so imagine the scandal in a polite noble household.)

Jared suggested using "pass gas," but that's a) too cumbersome and, b) too adult/medical. It's like referring to poop as a bowel movement or sex as intercourse. Not things I'm going to have a child running around saying (I guess she hopefully won't be referring to sex for several years anyway. Especially since Jared says Seville's not allowed to date until she's 30 years old. still.)

Other rejects: Cut the Cheese (too adolescent), Break Wind (too... I dunno), and Barking Spiders (did anyone else use that one, or is that a Bryce Pixton Original?)

I've experimented with the word "toot" and it seems like the most likely champion. Even though I couldn't stand it as a kid when my friends called it that. It seems to fit a cute baby the best. Does anybody have any good suggestions?