Here’s the song reference. One of my favorite mental exercises is to create new lyrics to songs that are fun to sing — and appropriate for tiny people. My husband has referred to me as the Weird Al Yankovic of children’s music.
When Daddy came home last night, Bugaboo, Beanie, and Mr. Man bolted out the front door with their plastic buckets to join in the evening raspberry raid, leaving Baby Guy (with whom they had all been playing cars before they saw Daddy pull into our drive) crying on the living room floor. Since Baby Guy is the happiest baby in the world (until he’s not), even I melt when he cries, especially when the reason for his sadness is so readily apparent, so I scooped him up and gave him some extra snuggles.
After he used my shoulder as a Kleenex, Baby Guy blew me a kiss. This is a new habit he’s developed, and possibly his most charming one to date. Still making kissing sounds, he wrapped his chubby little arms around my shoulder and cuddled closer, rocking himself a little bit. That rocking is how Baby Guy informs me he would like to dance, so I stood up to sway with him a little. As I rose, I caught the strains of a certain song familiar to most children of the 80s playing on the classic rock station (aside: when did my music become “classic?”) and picked up the beat in our sway. Baby Guy smiled and giggled, cooed and started tapping my lips, saying, “Mamamamama” as he tapped.
In Baby Guy language, “Mamamamama” means one of three things: mommy, milk, or music. Since I was already holding him, and he had just hurled his milk to the floor, I assumed he wanted a song. He chortled and bounced in my arms as I danced with him and edited the refrain in a way Warrant probably never imagined: “He’s my Baby Guy, squishy little baby such a happy guy, smile so sweet brings a tear to your eye, he’s Baby Guy . . . he’s my Baby Guy, funny little fellow with the big brown eyes, snuggles everybody morning noon and night, sweet Baby Guy!”
He started laughing so hard he gave himself the hiccups, so I handed him his milk just as Daddy came in with the rest of the tribe and an enormous haul of raspberries (which I personally secured to avoid any repeats of the Tuesday night incident). Bugaboo, Beanie, and Mr. Man were complaining about the abundance of mosquitoes by the thicket, and the sharpness of the thorns, and the lateness of the hour, but quickly perked up when given a bucket of raspberries to share. Daddy, bless his heart, had also discovered the first ripe fig of the year on our tree, and brought it to me, unseen by any other little eyes.
Baby Guy just laughed and smiled, slurping knowingly on his milk.
Today’s prayer: Lord, You comfort the brokenhearted, and we follow You. When Your blessings are downcast, let them see You in me as I comfort them, and please remind me that for a small child, a small hurt seems much larger than it would to an adult. Please fill me with the grace I need to teach them perspective and humility, and the wisdom I need to teach them by example. Thank You for music, Lord, and for raspberries in their season, and thank You for building us into a family that loves both.