I’ve always loved to sing. Whether I am actually any good at it is debatable.
I did get in to the chorus in grammar school, but when I tried to audition for one of the soprano sections (mezzo?), I kind of made a fool of myself, missing the notes. The problem was that alto, the section to where I was unceremoniously relegated, didn’t have as many fun parts.
I used to listen to my parents’ records that had the lyric sheets in the jackets. The Beatles, Jim Croce, Fleetwood Mac, Elton John. For Billy Joel, I just played the albums over and over again until I had them memorized, guessing all the words. Who cares what a “columbo” is? If Billy Joel says the piano sounds like one, and I can belt it at top volume, fine by me.
In summer camp, I lived for the songs we sang. Day camp gave me “I’m in Love with a Big Blue Frog,” and “Rise and Shine,” and “Eddie Kucha Ketcha Kamma Tosamara Tosa Known-as Sama Kama Wacky Brown,” and “The Cat Came Back.”
Sleep-away camp added acoustic guitar-fueled folk favorites like “Big Yellow Taxi,” “The Circle Game,” and the oddly inappropriate, “Margaritaville.”
In high school, I got my first clear message that my singing wasn’t so stellar. Friends informed me one sad night that they were purposely choosing tapes to play in the car that I didn’t know the words to. *Sigh*
Still, I sang along whenever I could. I started taking guitar lessons at 16 and the first song I requested to learn was Margaritaville. I had hopes of becoming a song-leading counselor at summer camp, although, truthfully, I couldn’t really focus on carrying a vocal melody and strumming at the same time.
After college, I began doing improv theater. I loved performing improvised musicals. Making up the words and melodies came fairly easily once I learned that at least in that venue, it was almost more important to commit with gusto than to hit the note, or even rhyme properly. If you believed in it, they clapped. Not to give myself too short shrift. Sometimes, I hit the notes, AND came up with funny lines — with joy, energy, and a decent singing voice.
All that to say, once I got over my initial shyness, I dove right in to the singing part of motherhood, with gusto. Maybe some moms don’t consider singing part of the job. It’s certainly been an integral part of our bedtime routine, and I don’t think I could have survived the colic months without it.
Lately, I’ve discovered that if I’m driving and Jonah is crying in the car seat, there is one song that has the absolutely magic ability to stop him mid-wail. Over the weekend, when my Mother In Law was riding in the back seat with him and I sang it, she confirmed that he was absolutely mesmerized.
I have sleep-away camp to thank for this one too, although no guitar was involved: “Once an Austrian Went Yodeling.”
I only remember three verses, so I have been singing those over and over. Now that I’m looking it up on the internet, I am starting to recall the other verses, though clearly, there are regional variations.
My three verses were Cuckoo Bird (“cuckoo cuckoo”), Grizzly Bear (“grrrrrr”), and Girl Scout (her sound: “Would You Like to Buy Some Cookies?”)
So, here’s the thing. Today, after we dropped MIL off at the airport, Jonah was desolate. She’d been a super friend to him all weekend, especially in the car. We drove away from the curb and he was wailing. We stopped the car, I hopped in the back seat with him but my mere presence was not enough.
So I started singing the song.
And here’s the funny part:
He decided the cuckoo is HILARIOUS. We coo and coo-coo’ed back and forth and he dissolved in hysterical laughter. (Of course the merriment was slightly affected by my bringing out the camera phone to video the moment, but you can still get the idea):
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