crypticgirl (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
crypticgirl) wrote2008-10-01 10:03 pm
crypticgirl) wrote2008-10-01 10:03 pm
Entry tags:
Songbirds
There are many sad things about visiting my sister's house. She and her kids live in a state of chaos, and it's both amazing and maddening to see how quickly they can flourish in the short time my Mum and I visit. Read them a book and they'll come back to ask for more stories, and they'll even read back to you. Catch them being good and they beam. Tell them when to stop in a quiet voice and they quickly learn to listen. Cuddle them and they will begin to see you as their personal couch... which is fine up until you get a shoulder rammed against the side of your pelvic bone, as I discovered.
I got a newfound appreciation for my Dad's ability to tell stories off the cuff while I was there. One night Miss Muffet wanted a story after they were already tucked in bed. I didn't want to encourage her to get up to grab a book because I knew the other two little ones would follow her straight away and we'd have to get out the industrial strength fishing nets again to round them all up. I came up with something, but it was the crappest crap that ever crapped.
In their house there is no music. The only ambient sound is either people arguing or the television. So one night when Mum and I were making the salad for dinner, I asked, "Do you want to sing something?"
It was a stupid question, really. Mum and I have been singing together for years. I can't sing very well at all most of the time because of my hearing, but singing with Mum seems to make it a bit better. The two of us sang our way through all the years we spent together after my sister left home. We'll sing almost anything - love songs, sad songs, Christmas carols in the middle of July. Especially Christmas carols in the middle of July.
So we began a very loud, very cheerful rendition of 'The Glory of Love' from Beaches (the Youtube clip can be found here, text lyrics are here). My sister just looked at us as though we belonged in an asylum. My nephew, who is sixteen and very, very used to our singing, gave us a shy grin before going back to pretending he didn't care. My nieces had all been playing in the backyard. Slowly three sets of hands and three sets of eyes appeared at the kitchen door. At first they kept their distance because they didn't know what the hell was up, and then they came in the door and stared and stared. They were fascinated.
The next day I was reading a story with Baby Bird who kept pointing at the page as though she were reading and making up sentences so she could 'read' to me, and I began to sing under my breath to her. Mum came past and informed me that I couldn't do that; the kids were starting to make loud and tuneless 'la la la' noises and my sister didn't want them to. I looked at her sadly. I didn't need to say that the kids *should* be making loud and annoying tuneless sounds to learn to sing. She already knew.
Still, that night is one of my fondest memories of my sister's kids. It was like watching a light go on behind their eyes, just for a moment.
I got a newfound appreciation for my Dad's ability to tell stories off the cuff while I was there. One night Miss Muffet wanted a story after they were already tucked in bed. I didn't want to encourage her to get up to grab a book because I knew the other two little ones would follow her straight away and we'd have to get out the industrial strength fishing nets again to round them all up. I came up with something, but it was the crappest crap that ever crapped.
In their house there is no music. The only ambient sound is either people arguing or the television. So one night when Mum and I were making the salad for dinner, I asked, "Do you want to sing something?"
It was a stupid question, really. Mum and I have been singing together for years. I can't sing very well at all most of the time because of my hearing, but singing with Mum seems to make it a bit better. The two of us sang our way through all the years we spent together after my sister left home. We'll sing almost anything - love songs, sad songs, Christmas carols in the middle of July. Especially Christmas carols in the middle of July.
So we began a very loud, very cheerful rendition of 'The Glory of Love' from Beaches (the Youtube clip can be found here, text lyrics are here). My sister just looked at us as though we belonged in an asylum. My nephew, who is sixteen and very, very used to our singing, gave us a shy grin before going back to pretending he didn't care. My nieces had all been playing in the backyard. Slowly three sets of hands and three sets of eyes appeared at the kitchen door. At first they kept their distance because they didn't know what the hell was up, and then they came in the door and stared and stared. They were fascinated.
The next day I was reading a story with Baby Bird who kept pointing at the page as though she were reading and making up sentences so she could 'read' to me, and I began to sing under my breath to her. Mum came past and informed me that I couldn't do that; the kids were starting to make loud and tuneless 'la la la' noises and my sister didn't want them to. I looked at her sadly. I didn't need to say that the kids *should* be making loud and annoying tuneless sounds to learn to sing. She already knew.
Still, that night is one of my fondest memories of my sister's kids. It was like watching a light go on behind their eyes, just for a moment.