Over and over

One of the smaller surprises of fatherhood, for me, involves that songs that come out of my mouth on a regular basis, as Cleo and I wander from playground to Panera, and from playroom to library. It's not simply that that songs come to mind; I've long found myself mumbling, in a weak and undimensional voice, the lyrics to something while driving, or walking, or showering. But with Cleo, a stable rotation of tunes has gradually emerged, and each has, I think, a certain lyrical appropriateness or relevance. There's The Beatles' 'Norwegian Wood,' with its obviously pertinent opening lines: "I once had a girl Or should I say She once had me." There's the quiet anthem 'No One,' by Alicia Keys, with its soft insistence that 'Everything's Gonna be All Right' - just right for, say, a Tuesday afternoon when I've been watching Cleo for six hours, have three to go, and the kitchen floor is littered with pots and pans. And then there's Seal's classic, 'Crazy,' with its open embrace of such chaos: 'We're never gonna survive Unless we get a little crazy." Go for a walk in the mud, in search of a swing, and spend 10 minutes sorting woodchips? Sure thing, Cleo. I'll just sing some Seal.

Although I'm thrilled that Cleo does recognise an increasingly large stable of words - today, when asked, she pointed to a diaper; familiar forms like house and car are by now second nature - I'll confess to being a touch nervous that she'll catch on, eventually, to the fact that most of the songs I to sing around her seem to be, in some sense, psychological supports. Should I be trying to find, instead, songs that teach the sorts of nurturing lessons that bright parenting books seem to favor? A French ditty, perhaps, about a little girl who learned to share? Compositions that suggest an openness to various forms of creativity? Tupac, about appreciating his mother? Well, perhaps. But at least I'm not, I think, singing Don Giovanni's aria regarding his sexual prowess, or Axl Rose's unfortunate screed against immigrants and gays. One could find a worse parenting theme, in other words, than Alicia Keys.

But, really, I'm not sure that the lyrics, or even the melody, matter much at all, when it comes to Cleo's purportedly delicate ears. One of the words that she knows is sing, and one of the most endearing things she does is, when asked to sing, to simply say, LA LA LA, in what seems to me to be a standard descending series of thirds, and a slightly dissolving intensity. LA La la. Which suggests, to me, that my amateurish singing comes across as nothing but babble, stripped of both sense and melody. The Beatles, Seal: La la la.

Sound improbable? Well, maybe - especially if you belong to the Babies Are Amazing in the Way That They Soak Everything Up school of thought. But, if so, did you see Alex Ross' piece on John Cage in this week's New Yorker? The last paragraph is a doozy. Cage is quoted telling the story of an African prince who went to London, and was honored with an entire program of orchestral music. "And," as Cage told it, "he said, 'Why do you always play the same piece over and over?'" Cleo's no African prince, but perhaps the lesson to be drawn is comparable. In a diverse world of noises, subtle differences may seem worth noting, or even treasured, to the weary parent. But to the newly arrived, they may seem completely unimportant: invisible distinctions in a rich, rich landscape.