Reflection: Music and Motherhood

A love letter to my youngest son

Here at Heartfelt Fiction, I mostly share, well, fiction. Even if a story is written in the first person, it’s a fictional point of view. But every now and then, I want to tell the story of my own life. Thus, the Reflection series. These are little love letters to the people in my life or the moments that matter most. To make sure you never miss one, be sure to subscribe.

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I first discovered Counting Crows at summer camp. I was fourteen and experiencing the bittersweetness of my last year taking sanctuary in the woods of Vashon Island. My cabin leader, Scott, was the coolest guy I’d ever met. He had long hair (which violated my private school’s dress code), tattoos (I knew no one with them at the time) and always wore a band tee (still my favorite element of a man’s wardrobe). One day he wore one with an especially unique design.

“Cool shirt,” I said, nodding to the fish bowl wearing a suit and bowler hat at the center of his chest.

“Hey, thanks,” he replied. “You like Counting Crows?”

“Love them,” I lied. I’d never heard of them before.

I amended the issue by asking for the album on Scott’s shirt, “This Desert Life”, for my birthday later that summer. I instantly fell in love. Adam Durtiz’s plaintive voice and his intricate, beautiful lyrics wove their way into my DNA like no other artist had before. I must have played that album fifty times in a row that week. I used my allowance to buy their first two albums and fell even more in love. Counting Crows became the soundtrack to my adolescence and then with each new release, the soundtrack to my life. Their music is an anchor and a comfort in my darkest of times; a celebration and a joy in my happiest.

But that’s not really why I’m writing this letter, though I hope that it helps you understand me a bit more when you’re older. I’m writing to tell you about one of the most cherished parts of my day. To appreciate just how precious it is to me, it helps to know my connection to this music.

I sing to you at bedtime. It’s a tradition that began your first night at home. Me, pacing up and down the hall, holding your tiny body against mine. You, adding a chorus of cries to my melodies. That was the first night you heard Counting Crows. I have sung their songs to you ever since. 

Now that you’re older, you request your nightly songs. “Knees Deep”, by The Beths. “Love Is an Open Door”, from Frozen. “Jesus Is on the Main Line”, like grandpa used to sing to me. I love them all because you love them. But nothing thrills me more than when you request Counting Crows.

For the last week, you’ve asked me to sing “Saint Robinson and His Cadillac Dream” every single night. That’s not unusual, since it’s one of your favorites. It’s one of mine, too. But something is different now. For the first time in four years, you don’t lay down next to me or ask to be held close. This last week, you dance.

Your sweet, sturdy body glides around the carpet of your room and you elegantly move to the words.

I’ve seen Cadillacs sailing.

You throw your little arms out like a mainsail and slide.

I keep thinking tomorrow is coming today, so I am endlessly waiting.

You stand stark still for all of “waiting” until I come in with the chorus.

Kerry’s down in her basement, all toe shoes and twin, with the girl in the mirror who spins when she spins.

And when she spins, so do you.

There’s a hole in the ceiling, down through which I fell.

You dramatically sprawl on the floor.

Just get into my car and drive.

You pantomime driving a car.

And when I sing the end (she says I always do the same things, over and over) you grandly bow at the waist. I clap and cheer. You beam.

My love, singing for you would have been enough to sustain me. But watching you come alive in this new way to a song that has seen me through decades? It is a joy and an honor I never knew I could have. 

This moment is, in my humble estimation, the great magic of parenthood. You leave behind small pieces of your soul in your child’s. They take it, reshape it and make it theirs. It works its way so deep into their skin that they never question their ownership of it. But it was the parent’s first; some version of it anyway. It makes my heart soar to think that my music might become this for you. The way my father’s music became mine.

Keep dancing, my darling. I’ll accompany you for as long as you’ll let me. I’ll cheer for you forever.