The Beach Boys, Sly Stone, The Clash, Etcetera

6:03 a.m. -- 3 mos., 17 days old

I'm in a household of sick people. Baby A's had snot in her head for the past three mornings, and yesterday M awoke saying, "I know why Baby A's been fussy. My throat's killing me." I thought I'd noticed once, giving Baby A a bottle, that she'd struggled to swallow. Now we know her little throat must have been inflamed. Boy, will we be glad when she's got language. M stayed home yesterday, which she never does. So far I've managed to stay out of the morass. Spent the better part of yesterday fetching tea and toast and trying to entertain Baby A when she wasn't dozing at her mother's breast.

One sure-fire way to keep Baby A engaged is to play music. (We have no TV, so we do this a lot.) Yesterday, having sung her a Beach Boys tune for about the hundredth time -- she squirms frequently, and "squirmer" fits so neatly into all those surfer songs ("Squirmin Safari," "Little Squirmer," "Squirming USA") -- I decided to bust out the "Endless Summer" LP and play her the originals. Her reaction reminded me of when I played the Beach Boys for a cockatiel I once bird-sat for a few months, and Beethovenova (don't ask) instantly began to chirp and trill and scuttle across her cage in excitement. Something about the vocal harmonies, I gather. Upon the needle touching down on "Surfin Safari," Baby A evinced similar reactions: all four limbs wriggling, body bobbing, non-stop vocalizing. (When she gets excited these days she sounds like an adolescent talking through a burp.) She didn't begin to settle until "Warmth of the Sun," and when I sat her down and sang along to "I Get Around," she cracked up, then got riled up all over again.

No lullabies for Baby A. From early on we've played a variety of music, mostly in attempts to soothe her savage breast. Dancing with her in our arms is often the only way to keep her calm. The stuff that works best has strong beats -- Mozart symphonies over flute quartets, Lionel Hampton over Joshua Redman, Janis Joplin over Janis Ian. (OK, that last is an extrapolation -- we own no Janis Ian. But one night in an inconsolable state, "Try (Just A Little Bit Harder)" and "Cry Baby" settled her right down.)

When in doubt, we turn on the blues. From Robert Johnson and Howlin' Wolf to John Hammond singing Tom Waits, Baby A seems to enjoy it all. Conceivably, this stems from the 22 hours of her birthing, when M -- who'd picked out CDs for her labor -- listened to a steady diet of "Blonde on Blonde," Nick Drake, downbeat Beck, and other more or less mournful songs that kept M grounded amidst the pain. Finally, about 20 hours in, when Leonard Cohen began to drone some of his Greatest Hits, our midwife had heard enough and popped in one of her own airy, earth-mother, New Age CDs, which welcomed Baby A into the world.

Nothing New Age-y now. At a party last week, a live Habib Koite album was the only thing that stopped her screaming. When I walked toward my office, where the speakers thumped, she hushed; when I turned and walked back toward the party, she started right up again. A couple of nights ago she was kicking up a fuss, and we had to take off the cool Orchestra Baobab and put on a 1970s soul mix; it took long minutes of The Staples Singers, Bill Withers, and Sly And The Family Stone before she mellowed. Baby dance workouts are the only thing keeping our thighs from total flab-dom.

It's hard to describe how much pleasure I derive from Baby A's enjoyment of my music. And I use the personal pronoun with intention. For the first time in years, I can play in my own house artists that M has proscribed, whether through explicit requests or implicit but unsubtle actions (like leaving the room when the disc comes on.) The Clash. Elvis Costello. The Rolling Stones. One night, having put her to sleep with some early XTC, I came to M with tears in my eyes and said, "She must be my daughter. She likes all my music, especially the stuff you hate."

So, since they form the only path to put our infant to sleep, many long unplayed, much mourned parts of my CD collection have leapt back into rotation. Bless you, Baby A. For "The Name of This Band is Talking Heads." For "Meaty Beaty Big and Bouncy." For "Get Happy." For "Tim." Remember all those nights when I got up five, six times to change your diaper? We'll call it even.