So, this past week, I stumbled on a certain Bushwalla track featuring Jason Mraz… on the kaleidoscope. It has been stuck in my head all day. Particularly Bushwalla’s “If you ask who I am/ I be Bush W the white rap man/ the acoustic rhymer…” and Jason’s “do do do do do do do do do…” I can’t help but grin like an idiot when I listen to it. This is now filed under happy songs. If you know the song, you know what I mean. If you’re interested, look up “Titty Banging” by Bushwalla with Jason Mraz, specifically at Twiggs.
[LMS, if you’re reading this, don’t worry, I won’t subject your daughter (or any of your future children) to this. Trust me, I’m still a good candidate for Godmother.]
I went to the open mic tonight at The Perk. It had looked like it was going to be a small group, — no offense, but run-of-the mill — but it turned out to be one of the best readings I’d been to at that locale. There was not a featured reader, but I think it’s safe to say Develon and Paul stole the show. I look forward to running into them again. Meanwhile, I got to promote SMR a bit. I think I read more than my share, including a piece that I later realized was more of a piece for the page than presentation. It reads really well, but makes absolutely no sense unless you can see it on the page, punctuation and all. This was, as far as I can remember, the first time I’ve gone to an open mic and read but not any of my own work.
Before the reading I had the day to spend with my older son, and just him. We just ran errands, me and the 3½ year old, but it was really nice. He wanted to come with me, so I wasn’t dragging him, and we weren’t pressed for time, so we got to visit the toy aisle a bit too, so he was thrilled. Sometimes I feel I’m missing how #1 is growing up because #2 still demands so much attention. When I came home from the reading around 10:30, #2 was deep asleep (as expected) and #1 was awake in bed (as expected, though his bedtime is 9/9:30), waiting for me to hold him in the rocking chair. I did, longer than usual. He usually hugs me, and I hold him “like a monkey.” But tonight I asked him if I could hold him “like a baby,” cradled with his head against my chest. That was nice.
It’s so cliché, but the idea of loving your children equally but differently is really starting to take hold for me. I’m harder on #1 because he’s older of course, but I think too because he reminds me of me, being the oldest, doomed to be shorter than his younger brother. Meanwhile, #2 is still “the baby” and since his premature arrival, I’ve felt I do just that, baby him, maybe more than I should. That and I can clearly see he’ll look like his handsome daddy.
We’ll see how things change if/when a third child comes into play.