Waltz

Granddaughter and I have been singing.  She sways in my arms and does her best to carry the refrain.  A chorus of “Mony Mony” and then Crimson and Clover” as we work our way through the Shondell’s.  Six months is not too early to begin a formal introduction in classic pop.

My wife complains.  This is not, she argues, the way to sooth a baby to sleep.

Aubree laughs.  We spin across the living room.    I bend my knees and we dip.  Peals of small baby laughter.  I straighten, then dip again.  More peals.  Da da da da da daaaa. Over and over.

Let’s be clear, this is a tired girl.  She’s crawling now, pulling up, almost nailing the whole cruise the furniture routine and sometimes seriously pissed off that she can’t walk like a big kid.  She has been a baby in constant motion for most of the afternoon, fighting off naps through sheer tiny will power.  Sucking down bottles and devouring  jars of Gerber peaches for energy.  Playing toys with Uncle Nik.  Looking at books with Grandma.

Now singing with her grandpa.  Or jabbering along as grandpa sings to her.  As I swing past the rocking chair I snag her softest blanket.  We swing from north to south, from Tommy James to John Fogerty.  We lower the volume, raise the front window blinds to let in the evening stars.  Born On The Bayou.  Run Through The Jungle. Aubree’s head sinks against my shoulder.  Grandma picks up the tiny socks that have scattered across the rug.

Green River.  Slight baby snores as my granddaughter finally gives it up.  We sway together a few verses longer in the front window.  Grandpa happy.  Grandma impressed.  Barefoot girl dancing in the moonlight.

Dave/IL

~ by oldmanhawk on February 1, 2009.