The Unforgivable Sin

We have this little record player, I think it is Fisher Price, you know, it plays plastic records, one song a side – orange, lavender, blue, lime-green- one more can’t remember. My sister bought it in a fit of nostalgia and selflessly gave it to my profoundly deaf (then two year old) son who was just learning about sound. I loved it then. We would sit together, he would wind the crank, select a record, jam it on, turn on the player and then we would break down to “Camp Town Races”, “Edelweiss”, “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star”, “O Where O Where Has My Little Dog Gone” or something equally snappy. I was thrilled to be doing something to support my little guy and unconsciously assuaging the monstrous guilt that dogged me night and day.

Well, it is 7 years later, my son is doing well, guilt has been slayed and my 2 yo daughter with regular hearing is the current keeper of the record player. I am glad she likes it, but as she is a bit of a speaking savant it’s no big thing and actually sometimes a bit annoying. For example when I have my own music blaring, we have just gotten home from school, the big two are whining and I am raising my voice to give instructions and or corrections. This was the scene yesterday when two chubby hands someone finagled the blue record onto the player and the tinny tune, “Camp Town Races” floated into the cacaphony, drifted into my straining eardrums and began to scratch them. I leaped across the room and tore the arm off the record, silencing one offensive sound.

“Hey Stop! Thas my Ha Lu Ya Box!”

Hallelujah box? I had no idea.

Clearly I was quenching the Spirit. Instead I turned off my music and allowed my baby to worship.

“Ha lu ya. Ha lu ya. Ha lu ya….” All the Doo Da Day.