The last two evenings, Leo has jumped up after dinner to say, “Let’s listen to some music.”
He runs over to the boom box on a corner bookshelf in the kitchen and begins fiddling with the knobs. He knows which CD is his – a children’s album of Woody Guthrie songs from my friend, Margie – but he’s also curious about my jazz CDs.
The first night, he listens to the song "Take Me Riding In the Car," and shouts out certain words: Back seat! Blow the horn! There's a frog in the car!
Then he looks at Nina Simone’s face on one of my CDs and decides he wants a listen. I cue up “My Baby Just Cares For Me,” one of my favorite songs, and try to dance him around the dining room. He’s not having it.
But he likes the next song, “Don’t Smoke In Bed.” On the second night, he begins playing his CD, then says, suddenly, with perfect enunciation and recall, “Don’t Smoke In Bed.” I roar with delight, and he says, again, “Don’t smoke in bed, Mommy."