The day my dad taught me to use the record player opened my world. The supple feel of the grooved vinyl and the sugary smell of the paper sleeves. The delicacy of the diamond-tipped needle. It was exotic. I listened
The day my dad taught me to use the record player opened my world.
The supple feel of the grooved vinyl and the sugary smell of the paper sleeves. The delicacy of the diamond-tipped needle.
It was exotic.
I listened to the ‘60s and ‘70s classics in their collection. The Beach Boys, The Beatles, Loggins and Messina. I explored my dad’s eclectic collection of random classical records. The only one I remember now is Holst’s “The Planets.” I felt so grown up. It was a complicated process, and one fraught with the possibility for disaster. I could drop the record. I could get fingerprints on it. I could scratch it.
It was a rich sensory experience. The sound of the music was an important part of it, but there was also all the business of turning on the receiver, selecting the input, choosing a record, taking it out, placing it on the turntable, lowering the arm and listening to the soft hiss that preceded the music.
When we listen to music these days, we’re often doing it through the computer. MP3 files. iTunes. Internet radio.
Teaching Henry to use those is as simple as pressing buttons.
I just don t believe that flipping through an iPod has the same potential for impact as perusing my parents record collection.
My son loves music, much the way I love music.
There’s almost always music in our house, whether it’s someone strumming a guitar, playing the piano or singing. The little guy sings all the time, and requests his favorites.
Like us, he’s a Beatles fan. Only the early stuff, though, if you please. Put on anything later than “Help!” and he says, “No, Daddy. The Beatles.” He plays along with “She Loves You,” banging on his little drum positioned just so, and singing at the top of his lungs. On particularly rough drives, singing is one of the easiest ways to get him to calm down.
So long as it staves off crying, I’ll sing the alphabet for hours.
Music excites him, quiets him, comforts him. It also ends his day.
Our bedtime routine concludes with him asking me to lie down next to him. He puts in a few requests. We usually start with “Belly Button,” a goofy alphabet song I made up.
We sing our way through “Till There Was You” (which he knows because The Beatles sang it, not from “The Music Man”), a few random selections, and usually end with “Rock-a-bye Baby.” No matter how digital our music library becomes, this is one way music will still be a multifaceted sensory experience.
We snuggle close, breathe together, sing together.
I have beautiful memories of my parents sharing music with me in so many ways, and I am grateful to have the chance to pass that along to my son.
• Mommy Talk is an online parenting blog written by Journal Times reporters Janine Anderson and Marci Laehr Tenuta. Find it online at www.journaltimes.com/mom.
