So this is how they get you. You buy your kid a ukulele (or your mother-in-law does, but how could she not — what with how cute he looked playing it in the store, how happy he was that it was a “guitar” just his size). You tell yourself he can do whatever he wants with it though as soon as you get home, you’re already trying to prevent him from further scratching it or smashing it to pieces (he seems to think he’s Pete Townsend) or adding any more dents, cracks, or other marks to the walls with it. You note two new pockmarks in the crib, subtract that from the value of what you expect to re-sell it for down the road on Craigslist.
You didn’t even know how to properly spell ukulele until you Googled it, looking for information on how to tune the thing. And then your husband and son did this cute Home on the Range duet. And now? Now you have a bookmarks folder for all the reference ukulele sites and you’ve successfully located one that has enabled you to play Home on the Range for real (almost — you vow to work on your strumming and find another site that will help you hold the chords using the proper fingers).
You discover that your son’s “play guitar” is somewhat vintage, is worth twice what you paid for it (if it wasn’t so scratched up) but that it has a plastic fretboard that can wear out.
You start to look at solid wood ukes on ebay… You’re practically a professional now, so you can call it a uke. You decide, for the money, your classic Roy Smeck ukulele — scratch that, your SON’s classic Roy Smeck ukulele is enough — for now.
You start to fantasize about how soon you might teach your son how to properly strum a C chord.
* * *
Tonight we tried the talk and sing but no HAND routine at bedtime again. The boy really likes to talk about people and things he likes. A word here or there. “Deidre, drum!” he says, meaning, you know how at yoga class, Deidre plays the drum? She is so nice. I sure like that drum. Last night he asked “Deidre. When?” and I told him, “We’re going to yoga class tomorrow.”
For months now, he has had this way of saying “Mommy?” at bedtime that sounds like he absolutely has something to say next. I answer “Yes?” but nothing follows. “Mommy?” he says again.
Coincidentally, for a while now, until yesterday, I have almost never been in the room during his bath. It’s Scott’s part of the evening routine, part of their daddy-son time. I’m usually meditating. But last night, for some reason, I hung out with them. Decided to grab a handful of bubbles and blow them at him — Pwpphfooof! — bits of bubble fluff flying everywhere. He loved it. Demanded the game again tonight. He scarmbled around the tub scooping up handfuls of bubbles, presenting them to my face for pwpphoof-ing, collapsing in giggles, repeats.
Tonight, after the bath, during the chat portion of his in-crib entertainment segment of our new bedtime routine, Jonah was reviewing his day.
“Drum. Deidre. Drumstick. Black one. Share. Audrey.” Meaning: Deidre let me play the drum after class. I used the black drumstick. I had to share the drum with Audrey. I didn’t like that so much.
He also said, “Mommy, do ‘Ohm'” — because he has learned about Ohm-ing in yoga class and he likes it, and he knows he can get me to do it for a while because I am under the illusion that it helps him sleep.
“Jonah do Ohm,” I replied. Meaning, hey kid, how about if you start to be able to entertain and soothe yourself at night?
His face lit up. “Ooooohm,” he said. And laughed. And he did it again. And we kind of took turns while I tried to get us to do it together.
Then, Jonah looked up at me and said, “Mommy? Remember bubbles?”
* * *
I know, right? Wow.