Big Pants came home from school Thursday and threw up. Friday was a teacher's in-service day, anyway, so there wasn't a question about sending him to school. I didn't want to drag the big one all over tarnation driving Tiny Pants to school (his preschool is 20 minutes each way, and he only goes for 3 hours a day) so I kept them both home, and was reminded why school is a necessity to parental sanity.
When you have a too-sick-to-leave-the-house but not-sick-enough-to-lie-on-the-couch kid at home, it's a trying day. When he is accompanied by a younger brother who is jealous of the attention Sickie is getting, time moves in reverse.
Tiny Pants has fallen in love with America. He declares every day is "America Day" and sings the National Anthem with his small hand over his heart. He, of course, doesn't know all the words, or even most of them, but he makes it work:
"The bombs bursting in air! Though the perilous night.
What's so proudly we hail! That our flag's inside out! For the land of the free! And the Tiger's last gleaming!
Oh Say can you see! [Hey, Mom, can we watch hockey?]
Oh Saaaay does that star spangled banner say that our flag was still there. What so Pwwwoudly we hail! That our flag was still dere…that our flag was inside out!"
I know what you are thinking. You are thinking that is the cutest thing ever. You are thinking I have been blessed with an adorable patriotic boy that will grow up to be the Governor, Mayor, or as he puts it, "Last King of [insert suburb name here]." You have not heard this song sung 272 times in a row.
It was adorable the first time. It was cute the second time. After the 17th time Big Pants begged me to make him stop. (I think irritating his brother only made Tiny Pants want to sing more.) By rendition 273 I was ready to become an anarchist. It was an insidious form of torture a la water boarding. What's worse, was that by Saturday his mangled lyrics were stuck in my brain even when he wasn't singing.
I am sure there are parents who have more patience than I do. I am sure there are parents who would patiently play the correct version on the piano for their child ad nauseum and teach them the correct lyrics. (I sang it three times, then went on strike.) I am also sure there are worse parents than me that would resort to ear plugs, Benadryl, or banish singing in the home entirely.
I did the only thing I could think of; I went on youtube, turned my speakers on high and drowned him out with "God Save The Queen."
Copyright © 2021 Lara Lillibridge
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