The Water is Wide

My younger son attended his first Music Together class when he was 3 weeks old. His earliest sessions only required that I peer over at him every few minutes to ensure that he remained asleep in the infant carseat. Soon he transitioned to being worn in a carrier as I tried my best to balance his needs with participating in the class with my toddler. Some weeks were more successful than others. The trenches of that baby-and-a-toddler music class are where I was fortunate to develop some of my most meaningful friendships. It is less than graceful to awkwardly weave through a room of dancing toddlers, chasing the toddler belonging to you in a full display of disobedience, without dropping his baby sibling. Luckily, there was nothing but grace extended to the mamas who found themselves in that situation. In practically no time at all my youngest crawled right into the blur of music and movement and color as if he had been a part of that excitement his whole life. Because he had.

For four and a half years, each season during the academic year brought with it a new session of Music Together classes. The duration of time spent with my children in those classes exceeded the time it took me to earn my college undergraduate degree. Each session contained a CD with a somewhat formulaic yet delightfully diverse collection of music. There was at least one lullaby included in every collection, and the spring that my youngest was a sleepy newborn tucked into that carseat, the lullaby was The Water is Wide. 

When I found myself alone with him in our hospital room for an extra night of observation before he could be discharged at birth, I was surprised to find it difficult to sing to him. He felt unfamiliar and it seemed odd in the exhaustion and emotion of that moment to sing him the songs that until that point had belonged to his brother and I. Eventually we found our songs. Several weeks into his first Music Together session, The Water is Wide was stuck in my head one night after having sung it that morning in class (and many, many times in the car as that session’s CD played on a loop). I sang it to him as we rocked and he drifted off to sleep before I placed him into his crib. That song remains part of our nightly routine. 

A few weeks ago I watched as his hands shot out of the kayak and into the water in front of me, incrementally adjusting my body to compensate for his shifting weight. Right hand, right hand, left hand. Left hand. Right hand. I pondered his reason. He always has a reason. He tends to glide his hands through the water as he passengers, but this was different. “Mama,” he spoke, breaking the silence. “You should really feel the bottom of a lily pad. It’s so peaceful.” I smiled as he continued to reach, now noticing the slight circular motion of his thumb as his fingers disappeared below the surface of the water. I delighted in him, this owl-loving, rainbow-drawing child with the wistful blue eyes whose authentic self is so much more than I ever could have imagined him to be. 

Every night the light from the moon hanging high on his bedroom wall spills over us as we lay together and sing. He reaches around my neck and plays with my hair between his fingers. He learned that from me, I realize, as I feel the pull of his hair woven through my own fingers. I wonder how long he will sing an octave higher than me, that sweet, high voice finally in pitch. “Give me a boooooat, that can carry twoooooo, and we shall roooooow, my Mama and I…” my boy sings. He lifts his head up from the pillow and grins. “I sang my MAMA and I.” “You sure did,” I say, returning his grin. I snuggle him a little more tightly. 

The water is wide. Right now that wide water consists of learning to do school at home and managing his body and missing playing with his friends. I suspect the water will only widen as he grows. As we all grow. How grateful I am to have this child in my boat, and what an honor it is to be in his.