Gus still hates my voice. Tonight, when Larry went to the new neighborhood wine store to explain how we could single-handedly keep their store in business if they would only stock Macaroni Grill Chianti, I sat down at the piano and started singing.
A year ago Gus would just tell me to just cut it out. But now, because he is three, he is more cunning.
“Mommy,” he said. “You have to stop singing so I can clap for you!”
“Okay, thanks, Gus!”
“YAY! YAY MOMMY! (Clap, Clap, Clap).”
I begin to sing another one.
“NO! STOP!” he says.
“What? You don’t like my voice?”
He shakes his head sadly. “No, I don’t.”
“But why?”
He shrugs. “I just don’t like it.”
“Is it bad?”
He pauses to think. “No. It’s not bad.”
“Then what?”
“It’s just … like … weird.”
A year ago Gus would just tell me to just cut it out. But now, because he is three, he is more cunning.
“Mommy,” he said. “You have to stop singing so I can clap for you!”
“Okay, thanks, Gus!”
“YAY! YAY MOMMY! (Clap, Clap, Clap).”
I begin to sing another one.
“NO! STOP!” he says.
“What? You don’t like my voice?”
He shakes his head sadly. “No, I don’t.”
“But why?”
He shrugs. “I just don’t like it.”
“Is it bad?”
He pauses to think. “No. It’s not bad.”
“Then what?”
“It’s just … like … weird.”
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