A recent Fall day was spent in the state of "Summertime."
First it was Anne-Sophie Mutter, the unexpected strains of Porgy's Charlestonian agony - a black man in the heat of the South - lilting out of a purely German violin. Oliver looked at me, his stone-blue eyes lolling about in his decidedly overwhelming exhaustion. He cooed as though the music coerced him to do so, emitting his happy whispers in an almost secretive tone - to say "ooh" too loudly would give everything away and would spoil his enjoyment. He allowed himself to smile before his eyes became cool slits among puffy pink clouds of chub.
Miles Davis? Those buggy-eyed admonitions were too hot, too too hot for this cold day. Oliver's clothes were just a bit too tight and Miles Davis was just a bit too excited. His high voice is fine but for a baby it is anything but childish.
Billie Holiday. The instrumental genesis of her version begs the sight of swaying hips in some predecessor of Technicolor. It made Oliver smile. He can't dance, he can't stand, he can't even crawl. I can't dance, that is to say, dance well either - but he gave it his own. His diaper ground against the multi-threaded padding of his crib. He cackled, his belly shook with the promises of soon-to-come laughter.
I fashioned some of the lyrics into my own - "your daddy's unemployed/and your momma's good lookin'". Honestly, though, I'm more employed now than I ever was as a high school teacher.
I am a homemaker, dear friends, and I am in love with my love, my son, and with music.
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