After going through the litany of songs from gymnastics, ABC, Blackbird, and Yellow Submarine, I sang Swing Low, Sweet Chariot to Hank last night. Don't know why that occurred to me. Of course, I'd like to think it's the alto vocal cords I was born with that Hank likes, but I have read that babies up to a certain age like the sound of their mother's singing even if she is completely tone deaf. And, I know, one of these days, I will hear, "aw, mom!" when I break into song, but right now I am enjoying thinking he is soothed by every note.
He still lets me pick a little on the guitar, too, before he goes for the tuning knobs. I think I'll add some other "old, negro spirituals" to our bedtime set. Is that what we're supposed to call them? Civil War-era African American folk music. How's that? I prefer black and white. I actually prefer whitey for folks like me, but you can't use it in scientific literature (such as this blog).
Looking forward to watching some dancing this weekend at the CCSF. Also, getting to go to a couple of workshops taught by the male world champion. Wonder if he can make me cry? haha.
(No one can MAKE anyone cry. I know). And some social dancing with people I will hopefully never see again. Had ANOTHER replay with DID. We agreed he will say, "stinky feet," when he feels himself transforming into the Hulk when my right arm is too relaxed or not relaxed enough.
Universe, please bring me a neutral dance partner with whom I can practice. Love, Meredith
(Yes, I know you already brought DPB, but because he didn't hear your message, you're gonna have to send another one. Thanks).