Unconventional Lullabyes

I made my way into the dark-ish room and closed the door softly so as not to wake E. It was still easy to see; the late sunsets of summer evenings meant that the light was still poking through the blinds, even though it was close to 8:00 PM. E had fallen asleep almost immediately after T and I had put the kids to bed a half hour earlier. S, though, had begun crying and was standing in her crib when I walked in.

“Mommy?” she asked expectantly, holding out her arms to be picked up.

“No, you’re not getting Mommy,” I answered. For one thing, T had already nursed S so she would go to sleep and was off the clock. For another, she had left to attend a PTA meeting at E’s school so she couldn’t come in even if she had wanted to.

“No, Mommy!” S began to cry.

“Stop it,” I instructed softly, picking her up from the crib. “Mommy’s not coming, it’s just me. It’s time for you to go to sleep.”

S continued whimpering slightly, giving indignant one-word answers to my offers of various conditions under which she would get back to sleep. Yes, she wanted another hug. No, she didn’t want to lie down yet. Yes, she wanted me to cradle her in my arms while I paced around the room. No, now she wanted to be held up so she could lie her head on my shoulder.

Yes, she wanted me to sing to her.

Music has always been a central part of my life; I played piano for nine years as a child and I grew up singing with my family during long car rides, sitting at holiday meals and chanting the weekly Torah portions in synagogue. Then, in college, I was in an a cappella group for two and a half years. I sang to T when we first started dating and, when I pictured what fatherhood would be like, I imagined myself carrying my children and singing them to sleep.

“Well, there’s something in the way she moves,” I began, choosing to start with James Taylor. I’d loved the song since I first heard it and it had been a staple in my repertoire ever since. S’s head lay down on my shoulder immediately and I began my laps around the bedroom.

S was still fidgeting when I finished; sleep was starting to gain the advantage but she wasn’t giving up easily. I laid her down in her crib, made sure she had the requisite number of pacifiers and sat down on the floor. I weaved my hand through the bars and extended my index finger, which S grabbed almost immediately.

Sleeping S
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“Sing again,” she directed.

I smiled, happy to oblige. I switched gears, opting for a Punch Brothers song I had discovered shortly after S was born. I never cared that the song was about a man struggling with alcoholism; it was more important that the song was soft and had an easy, soothing melody. Plus, kids don’t care what the lyrics mean; they just care that their parents are singing and engaging with them.

“I’ve been a moonshiner for seventeen long years,” I sang. “I spent all my money on whiskey and beer…”

S was lying on her side, one hand gripping my finger, the other clutching the small stuffed cow attached to her pacifier. I watched her chest expand slightly and return with each breath, slowing gradually as the song went on. Her fingers began to loosen around mine as I neared the end but I kept my hand there until I had finished the song. I carefully slid my finger back out from under S’s hand and through the wooden slats in the crib and put one of the other pacifiers near her hand so that she could find it later. I stood and took a moment to gaze at S, who had finally lost her battle to stay awake, and at E, who had remained asleep through the entire impromptu performance. I stepped gingerly back toward the door and slipped back out, closing the door softly behind me.

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