Yesterday Basil and I drove to Greenville to meet with our insurance agent, Stan. Yes, this is what we do on our mornings off now. We get insurance. We are now officially old married people, and should be shot and put out of our misery. Basil may still have hope. He does still put on old Sonic Youth albums before making coffee some mornings. I, on the other hand, am hopelessly uncool and lame.

The insurance buying was going just fine, and I’d had too much coffee on the way to the office, so I had to make a trip to the little old ladies room. As I was walking back into the office, Stan’s secretary, who I am sure is a wonderful human being but had a temporary lapse of brain function, blurted out, “ARE YOU PREGNANT?” After my brain had stopped rattling around in my skull brainpan, I laughed and said, “Lord, no, honey. I’m just fat!” The secretary turned a very lovely shade of purple, and I walked back into Stan’s office.

Basil and I drove straight to the YMCA and picked up the paperwork for a family membership. I guess it’s time for me to give birth to this food baby I’ve been carrying around for the last two years before it turns into twins!

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Beckett is teething again. It’s been very hard this time around. He has screamed and cried, thrashed, knashed his existing teeth, and become a miserable banshee. He’s taken to waking up in the middle of the night and letting out blood curdling Carrie White type screams of terror. When we go into his room, he’s standing in the crib, with a bright red face, and a demonic look in his eye. I finally worked up the nerve to stick my finger in his mouth, and yes, there is a tooth just breaking the surface.

During the middle of the night trips to the baby’s room, I’m not always at my most graceful state of being. Sometimes I flop him back down onto the mattress, cover him up, turn on the acquarium, turn on the music box, say “I love you.”, and walk right back out of the room. Two nights ago I pulled this lazy mommy routine, and Beckett shot me the proverbial middle finger, and continued to raise the dead. I flipped over impatiently, and shoved Basil. “I don’t know what else to do!”, I huffed. He grunted, and started to get out of bed. “Let’s start by turning off that God awful music box. That’s the most annoying shit I’ve ever heard in my life.” And you know what? He was right. Midi-Mozart blasting through a plastic speaker just doesn’t really sound all that great.

So, last night I was in my office working, and as Basil was putting Beckett to bed, I heard the sweet trumpet and soft silky voice of Chet Baker coming from Beckett’s room. Basil had unearthed an old office stereo system from the still unpacked Hawaii boxes in the garage, and set Beckett up with his own system, complete with remote control. And he’s got Chet Baker singing him lullabies again tonight.

Chet Baker’s music brings back amazing memories for me. It reminds me of a time in my life when I was surrounded by good friends, good food, creativity, expression, and was genuinely very happy. Chet tucked me into bed and played while I went to sleep during many of those nights. And when Trey was going through his stem cell transplant, I sent him a little Chet to help ease the pain and help him sleep. I think he may have even listened to Chet while the new healthy stem cells were being transplanted into his body.

Music is one of those sensory experiences that can tranplant you into another space, and into another time in your life. And if it’s important enough music for you, it weaves itself into every chapter. From wine filled nights on Mansfield Ave in Atlanta, Georgia and BMT units in Birmingham, Alabama to the quiet crib where my sweet baby lies sleeping, Chet is seranading my life again. I love these songs. Blow Chet, blow.

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Cathy sent me this picture today of Mother. While they were on vacation they went swimming with the stingrays in the Caribbean. See, we told you she was an angel!

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