VISIT MINNESOTA MONTHLY ON THE WEB

Arts and Entertainment

Dining Around Town

Twin Cities Taste

Online Article Index

MY BABY LOVES ELLA.

I don't mean "my baby" as in "he's my baby, he's so fine, he's my man."I mean "my baby" as in "she's my baby, she's so fine, she's my tiny newborn." My inconsolable newborn.

I've been home with my first, and probably only, child. Since she arrived, winter has been blowing at the windows and doors with its sharp breath as if to say, "You're stuck inside for awhile, hon. You'll have to figure out how to amuse the baby indoors." So it's just me, baby, and all my new-parent anxieties. Indoors. For three long months.

I walk the floor with my new bundle, going from window to window to let her take in her first Minnesota winter landscape. And I wonder, fleetingly, how many other new moms are standing at their windows, doing the same thing. Spring is always a blessed reprieve here—but even more so for mothers of winter babies.

Meanwhile, my daughter cries, and I can't figure out why. She has been fed and burped; she's not hungry. Her diaper is dry and clean. She has napped. She is not too warm or too cold. What on earth is wrong? During rare free moments, I skim parenting books and magazines for advice on how to calm a crying baby. Again and again, I read that one should sing lullabies. Even those of us who have limited experience with babies know that you should sing to them. It's just one of those things everybody does.

There's only one problem. I can't sing. Even if I could sing, I don't know many songs with words. My music of choice is mostly instrumental music written 250 years ago, give or take—and as catchy as J.S. Bach's tunes are, there are no words to the Bach music in my CD collection. Sometimes I can muster up a dusty old Beatles ballad, but that's about it. My knowledge of children's songs pretty much begins and ends with "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star."

How can I be a good parent if I can't even sing songs to my baby? I begin to harbor dark doubts about my mommy credentials.

I try playing my violin to console her. Sometimes it seems to do the trick; other times, she only cries harder and louder. A comment on my playing, no doubt. She seems to like simple folk melodies and gentle andantemovements of classical pieces. Longing to play the instrument I set aside after my daughter arrived, I eagerly set to work on the first movement of Bach's violin concerto in A minor. Baby sobs her objections. I put the violin away. Mommy has tested baby's patience by making her listen to the painful strains of an amateur learning a tough new piece of music.

One day, I remember that I have a couple of Ella Fitzgerald CDs. I can actually sing to these songs. Note that I don't say I sing like Ella. But I can sing along with Ella. With the baby sobbing her most pathetic,heartbreaking sobs, I pop an Ella disk into the CD player with my free hand and press "play." I am so awfully misunderstood / So lady be good / to me...

Around and around the living room I go, softly rocking baby and singing duets with Ella. The baby listens, puzzled and intrigued, as mommy picks up steam and begins to sing in earnest. I gain confidence by the second track and begin to really belt it out.

I'm old-fashioned / I love the moonlight / I love the old-fashioned things / The sound of rain / upon a window pane, / the starry song that April sings...

I'm having a great time singing and swinging along with Ella when something amazing happens. The little brow has smoothed out again, and the pudgy limbs have gone limp. Her mouth is once again a tiny, perfect rosebud. Her red-tinged eyes are closed, lashes resting on her chubby cheeks. By the end of the second track, my child is slumbering peacefully, thanks to Ella. I never even make it to "How Long Has This Been Going On" or "Do Nothing Till You Hear From Me," two tunes that Ella and I do particularly well, I must say.

I kiss the small button nose and fall back into the sofa, exhausted and relieved. The baby's great-grandma bought her a swing, but who knew that baby really likes to swing?

A new day, a new crying jag. I've had little sleep and I don't know what to do with this wonderful little stranger who seems to cry for no reason. Help me, Ella. I pop a CD into the player. Once again, we dance around the living room and I sing: From this moment on / you and I babe / We'll beriding high babe / from this moment on. / From this happy day / no moreblues songs / only hoop-de-doo songs / from this moment on ...

The baby stops crying and looks at me intently as I serenade her. Encouraged, I sing on.

Love you madly right or wrong / Sounds like the lyric of a song / But if it's so I think you ought to know / I love you, love you madly...

Oh, that incomparable voice. (Ella's, not mine.) No other singer could interpret the standards like Ella, no one could lend deep new meaning to those universal themes of love gained and lost, life's simple pleasures, or the joy of springtime. The baby falls asleep by the third track this time. I never make it to "All the Things You Are," "I Remember You," or "Just One of Those Things"—three of my greatest shower stall hits. I gently lay her down and study the cowlick on top of her head. The hair spirals out from it the way stars spray outward from a slowly spinning galaxy.

I press the "pause" button, give silent thanks to Ella, and kiss the center of the galaxy. MM

Susan M. Barbieri is articles editor of Minnesota Monthly.