In recent months, I have developed a hatred of Bob Marley. Who could dislike the ayrie fellow, I hear you ask? Someone who has to listen to him 12 hours a day, I answer.
You see, Leya has just emerged from a stage where the only way to calm her moods was to sing her reggae. Immediately, James and I dug out our old Bob CDs so that we could expand our repertoire and get the words right (Old Pirates, yes they rob aye; Not, old pirate's just a rabbi; a lyric which previously puzzled me yet simultaneously made me proud that we Jews are so multicultural as to have been embraced by the reggae fraternity.)
Anyway, I digress. After many, many hours of singing about three little birds, even the notion that everything was going to be alright lost its charm. Now, of course, I long for those days. Leya has since discovered the Moms and Tots 2013 All Time hits and, as a result, I spend my days constantly thinking about teddy bears who go into town knocking all the people down (why are these teddies so violent?) and elephants who have no fingers and toes.
To be honest, I find the songs slightly disturbing - not least because they are sung by a woman who sounds deeply concerned about something (even whilst urging children who know they are happy to clap their hands) and a man who sounds as if he is in the grips of severe constipation.
Moreover, every single song is about nodding, clapping and stomping, which makes me worry that Leya is going to grow up with a picture in her head of humanity like those bobbing head dogs, randomly clicking and smacking their hands together, in the manner of Tourette's sufferers.
This is not the first of her CDs to which I have had an adverse reaction. Back in the days of the nap drive, I used to play her lullabies to try, well, lull her. These appeared to have very little effect on her, but frequently I would find myself driving in a zombie state through streets I did not recognise at all.
Its seems that sound is, on the whole, a very difficult area for children and their parents. I refer here to the 'musical' toys. It's not just the electronic xylophones we have to worry about: in Leya's early babyhood, I had a mini-mobile hanging from her car seat. I became, like the lady from Banbury Cross, quite accustomed to hearing music wherever I went, as one sharp brake or corner would set off a tinkling peal. This is quite unnerving when you are setting off to a meeting with a CEO.
But that's far more innocuous than many of the other toys and their sounds Leya has in her collection. There was what I called the 'me too' toy: a ball which played nursery favourites (always slightly off key, as if the manufacturers couldn't afford the full rights to the songs and therefore went for the Fong Kong version) and which emitted a burst of notes if Leya left it alone for more than two minutes, as if trying to win back her attention.
That's nothing compared to the horrid little Barney my niece was given as a gift: on pressing its tummy, the toy would say "give me a huuuug". One night, when my sister and Marc were watching TV in the lounge, their kids safely tucked in bed and the toys in their toy box, they heard Barney's voice issuing from the playroom, pleading for that hug. Creepy.
The last word goes to a friend, who, unbeknownst to her, was carrying a Father Christmas that had been stuffed into her handbag by her child. After a major argument with her bank manager, she angrily turned on her heel, only to have the dignity of her departure completely deflated when, from her handbag, came the tinny sound of Santa Claus going "Ho, ho, ho, Meeeeeery Christmas!"
You see, Leya has just emerged from a stage where the only way to calm her moods was to sing her reggae. Immediately, James and I dug out our old Bob CDs so that we could expand our repertoire and get the words right (Old Pirates, yes they rob aye; Not, old pirate's just a rabbi; a lyric which previously puzzled me yet simultaneously made me proud that we Jews are so multicultural as to have been embraced by the reggae fraternity.)
Anyway, I digress. After many, many hours of singing about three little birds, even the notion that everything was going to be alright lost its charm. Now, of course, I long for those days. Leya has since discovered the Moms and Tots 2013 All Time hits and, as a result, I spend my days constantly thinking about teddy bears who go into town knocking all the people down (why are these teddies so violent?) and elephants who have no fingers and toes.
To be honest, I find the songs slightly disturbing - not least because they are sung by a woman who sounds deeply concerned about something (even whilst urging children who know they are happy to clap their hands) and a man who sounds as if he is in the grips of severe constipation.
Moreover, every single song is about nodding, clapping and stomping, which makes me worry that Leya is going to grow up with a picture in her head of humanity like those bobbing head dogs, randomly clicking and smacking their hands together, in the manner of Tourette's sufferers.
This is not the first of her CDs to which I have had an adverse reaction. Back in the days of the nap drive, I used to play her lullabies to try, well, lull her. These appeared to have very little effect on her, but frequently I would find myself driving in a zombie state through streets I did not recognise at all.
Its seems that sound is, on the whole, a very difficult area for children and their parents. I refer here to the 'musical' toys. It's not just the electronic xylophones we have to worry about: in Leya's early babyhood, I had a mini-mobile hanging from her car seat. I became, like the lady from Banbury Cross, quite accustomed to hearing music wherever I went, as one sharp brake or corner would set off a tinkling peal. This is quite unnerving when you are setting off to a meeting with a CEO.
But that's far more innocuous than many of the other toys and their sounds Leya has in her collection. There was what I called the 'me too' toy: a ball which played nursery favourites (always slightly off key, as if the manufacturers couldn't afford the full rights to the songs and therefore went for the Fong Kong version) and which emitted a burst of notes if Leya left it alone for more than two minutes, as if trying to win back her attention.
That's nothing compared to the horrid little Barney my niece was given as a gift: on pressing its tummy, the toy would say "give me a huuuug". One night, when my sister and Marc were watching TV in the lounge, their kids safely tucked in bed and the toys in their toy box, they heard Barney's voice issuing from the playroom, pleading for that hug. Creepy.
The last word goes to a friend, who, unbeknownst to her, was carrying a Father Christmas that had been stuffed into her handbag by her child. After a major argument with her bank manager, she angrily turned on her heel, only to have the dignity of her departure completely deflated when, from her handbag, came the tinny sound of Santa Claus going "Ho, ho, ho, Meeeeeery Christmas!"
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