lullabies

It seems that everyone, at some point in their lives—usually as new parents or as English majors—realizes that lullabies have very questionable content. Babies falling out of trees, empty promises of useless wealth, desperate musing on the nature of astral motion, hopeless contemplation of a shepherd’s laziness. Generally, it is material unfit for innocent ears, that we are singing to babies in order to make them sleep.

Well, why not? (This objection from the person with less analytical training or less at stake in the child’s upbringing.) The baby cannot understand the words, it’s the constant sound of your voice that the baby enjoys, that accomplishes the purpose bent toward his rest and, in the end, good health.

Sometimes, I must admit that I wonder whether the answers to my incessant prayers are just soothing words meant to get me to sleep. Not that God doesn't answer a sincere prayer with a sincere answer. But when we are fussing, it may well be that the incredible answers we get...and I mean incredible in its most legitimate sense...are his way of lulling us to sleep.
"Hush little baby, don't say a word. Papa's gonna buy you a mockingbird. If that mockingbird don't sing, papa's gonna buy you a diamond ring..." And so on. What everybody knows is that the baby really needs sleep, not a ring or a bird.

Just the thought of one of the many alternatives listed in that song is enough to get the baby what he really needs. The lullabier is wise.

If the lullaby is effective, the baby never hears the traumatic punch line, anyway.

Half the time what we say has nothing to do with what a person needs to hear. Isn't that a relief?

I call my mom when I need to hear things spoken as a mom speaks them. She’s a reliable source of advice, as are my dad and my friend E, neither of whom are my mom. From mom, that means gentleness, practicality and determination to find what is uplifting. And when I call my dad, it is in interest of falling asleep on undemonstrative confidence, cynically wise, and paradoxical hopefulness. They both give me what I need for my health, sometimes at the expense of making sense. You may agree that sometimes making sense keeps you awake all night.

p.s.--shout-out to E, D, J, J.A., and F. Though your voices melodious be, you’re not my mom or dad, but you know? That is why I call you.

first published 7/27/07, 8.16pm