That's what good moms do. They sing us through tough moments.
What's funny to me now, as I embark on my second year of mama-hood, is the actual song my mother always sang to me. I spent the first twenty years of my life believing that this song, a song that instantaneously soothed and comforted me as a child and as an adult, was a song that every mother sang to their child. It was a universal in my world.
My mom sang this song to my older siblings, to me and to my nieces. And now she and I sing this song to my daughter.
It wasn't until I was about twenty that I mentioned the song to a roommate of mine. I was experiencing a tough spell, and I remember saying something like, "Yeah, you know, it's like I need someone to sing Rock-A-Dee-Da to me even though I'm in college." She delivered a blank stare. Our shared moment evaporated. It's as though I spoke another language.
I humorously assumed that because my parents grew up on the east coast, my friend's ignorance of such a classic stemmed from mere dialectal and regional differences. Even though I essentially grew up in the Pacific Northwest, I said things like soda instead of pop, valise instead of suitcase. There must be some sort of northwest equivalent to Rock-a-Dee-Da.
I sang the song to my friend, hoping she would immediately recognize the tune and suddenly understand exactly what I meant.
See Saw, Rock-a-Dee-Da.
Who's there? My Katherine.
(No glimmer of recognition yet. Give her more, she'll get it.)
What would you like? A glass of beer?
(Hmmmm. This is strange. Why did this comfort me? Really. Who sings about buying a glass of beer to a child?)
Where's your money? In your pocket?
(Okay, this is odd too. And it's down right capitalist. Where does money fit into a lullaby?)
Where's your pocket? In your pants?
(Back on track. This is good. Sweet. Cute. Educational even.)
Where are your pants?
Ooop! You left them at home!
(Full stop. What? Who unknowingly urges their kid to fear leaving their house unclothed? What's going on here? Mom? Mom, where are you?)
It turns out this song is not universal. My mother - nearly thirty years after it's implementation as a soothing song for her babies - insists that she made this song up. We just never knew that. She explains that she spent a lot of time playing alone in the park in Brooklyn as a child and would sing this song to herself when she was on the swings. (It turns out my aunt has a similar story. But her song is a bit different. Was this a family song? Was it a Brooklyn thing?)
All four of us kids have chuckled about this song and it's inception over the years. It's funny how you rarely question these sort of knowns in your life as a child. When your mother sings to you, there's an unexplainable assumption that while the moments in which these songs are sung are special and unique to you and your mama, it's also comfortingly universal.
I suppose that's true. I suppose most mothers and their babies share a Rock-A-Dee-Da of their own. Or, at best, I hope that's true.
What's truly amusing in all this is that this song still holds a certain magical hold over the children in our family. When my mother or I sing this song to my daughter, she completely relaxes. Whether she's stumbled, is scared or is just plain tired, these lilting and absurd words soothe her.
I remind myself of this simplicity often as I find myself steeped in the challenges of conscious mothering. This song doesn't solve every problem, nor will it always comfort my daughter in times of crisis. In reality, it's a bit clumsy and slightly perverse. It does, however, remind me that we all have the ability to self soothe, and soothing others sometimes means simply stopping to sing and hold one another.
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