OUT OF TUNE...

Music had always been a big part of her life, so when she became a mother, singing to her baby came as naturally to her as kissing his sweet head. Every day she would sing to Billy: lullabies, nursery rhymes and oldies that her mother had sung to her.
They’d snuggle into their favorite chair, and as she serenaded him, he would gaze deeply into her eyes, his tiny hand upon her skin. Billy loved it and would coo along with her even before he could talk.
Then suddenly, at about the age of three, he stopped liking it. Each time she started to sing, Billy would start crying. The lullabies and softer tunes would set him off. He’d wail loudly and atonally. So she stopped.
But every few months or so, she’d try again, hoping against hope that it had just been “a phase”. No way.
She was devastated. Never before had she made anyone cry because of her music.
Some days it felt like the worst rejection she had ever known. He wasn’t pushing away the music- he was pushing her away. His reaction stung, like a slap.
It requires mentioning, however, that Billy was mildly autistic. Although he was high on the functioning scale, he had many challenges. One of the physical disorders Billy coped with was “hypersensitivity”. This meant that he would hear, see, feel, smell and taste more intensely than others do. For example, if a neighbor several houses down from them would mow the grass, Billy would pace frantically around the house with his forearms over his ears until the lawn was cut.
Naturally she used Billy’s hypersensitive hearing to help rationalize his acute reaction to her singing. As the years passed, though, Billy developed a love for pop music, begging her to find rock ‘n’ roll stations on the radio whenever they were in the car. That music didn’t seem to bother him. On the contrary! The louder the better. He also invented complex rhythms and enjoyed lying on his back in the bathtub, his ears just under the surface of the water, repeating them at peak volume, over and over.
At bedtime she’d say,” Billy, why don’t you choose a song for us to sing?” He’d select a rollicking rendition of “Old MacDonald” or a jazzy version of “Eensy Weensy Spider,” but never the exquisite “The Lion sleeps Tonight”, or heaven forbid, “Hush, Little Baby.” Once a year or so, she’d ask him why he cried when she sang, but the answer was always the same; “I don’t know.”
Several years later, on the eve of Valentine’s Day, she was putting Billy, then seven, to bed, talking about the next day when his school class would exchange cards.
He was very excited, but couldn’t just settle on sending just one. “Mom, you know, I really like Sandra, but I also like Julie.”
She replied, “It’s okay to like a lot of different people, dear.”
“But, Mom,” Billy protested, “I want you to be my real valentine.”
She was touched. “Billy,” she answered, “you’ll be always be my valentine.”
Without thinking, she started to sing one of her favorite old standards: “My funny Valentine, sweet comic Valentine, you make me smile with my heart…”
She never made it to the second line though. Billy had buried his face in the pillow and started to cry.
Of course, she stopped singing immediately, but she felt terrible. Wordlessly, she held him in her arms and rocked him gently. After a while he stopped crying.
“Billy,” she said, “I want you to take as much time you need, but try to tell me why you cry when I sing to you.”
They stayed quiet for a very long time, and then Billy quietly said, “Mom, it’s too beautiful.”
She had wrongly assumed that Billy’s reaction was the result of his “challenges” when it was just her son being himself- and very much like her. A touching song on the car radio could have her tearing up to the point where she’d have to pull over and wait until it’s done. That elevated, choked-up feeling could occur without a warning: at a school play, while watching an awards show, or at night when she’d go in to look at her angel- her sweet, sensitive son.