Inescapable patterns

Most of us, I think, are creatures of habit. We run our daily lives along familiar routines, sliding effortlessly into mundane patterns of behavior and relationships. Habituating ourselves makes sense, on some levels, because it means that we don't have to consciously think and rethink our daily actions (although some of us do that anyway). On the downside, such habitual patterns of action can be difficult to break.

In fact, some patterns seem pretty near inescapable. (I should note, here, that what follows is meant mostly facetiously, and should in no way diminish the efforts of peoples struggling with truly damaging patterns of behavior). I've been noticing, recently, that some of my interactions with my daughter are falling into old, almost forgotten patterns from my adolescence.

You see, in our family we had this rule. Well, we had lots of rules, but this one was rigorously enforced by my father. This rule was: no singing at the dinner table. Outside of mealtimes, the rule evolved (through my sister's creative genius) into: don't sing anything that Rosalyn knows the words to. She might sing along.

(I'm sure my sister would have more to say about this--in my defense, I don't think I'm that horrible a singer. I'm not a great singer, that's for sure, but I can read music and I can at least tell when I'm off tune. But anyway, clearly my family didn't appreciate my efforts.)

What does this have to do with patterns? I'm getting to that. Recently, this same disinclination for my singing has emerged in my daughter. I've always sang to my kids--hymns, primary songs, fragments of Broadway tunes and, more commonly, nonsense that I make up myself. Andrew never seemed to mind (although in retrospect this may say more about his musical lack than anything else). But Evelyn, whose little body can be so effortlessly stirred to action by a few choice beats, is more discerning.

Along with her other recent linguistic acquisitions, she has started telling me in no uncertain terms when my singing displeases her. Usually it goes something like this: "Singing. Stop. Mommy stop singing!" She does occasionally deign to let me sing--usually if it's one of her favorite finger plays (for the record, her current favorites are "Once there was a snowman," "Popcorn," and "The Eentsy Weentsy Spider"). But with increasing frequency, my musical efforts are met with that implacable announcement: "Mommy, stop singing!"

Somewhere, I'm sure, my siblings are laughing.