We have a standard bedtime routine for Baby-o that includes a couple books and then a few songs with the lights out. When I’m the singer, I often perform my rendition of “Maybe” from Annie, I occasionally throw in a ditty from Pete’s Dragon and I always bring the house down with “Feed the Birds” from Mary Poppins. When my husband, Tim, is the singer, the tunes are more frequently peaceful bluegrass numbers or some of the Grateful Dead’s less jam-based songs. From the kitchen, I can often hear Tim crooning, “Go to sleep you little baby …” and I know that the Honey-boy is on his way to Dreamland.
Then, there are the nights when Tim lulls Baby to bed with a childhood classic. Except he doesn’t really know any of the childhood classics. Or, more accurately, he knows a lot of the first lines, and then he gets creative.
Last night, I heard this:
London Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down.
(So far, so good.)
London Bridge is falling down, big fat Baby.
(Hm. A personal touch. Our baby is, indeed, big and fat.)
See the people on the bridge, on the bridge, on the bridge.
See the people on the bridge, big fat Baby.
(Intriguing. I had never really considered the people, probably tourists, on the bridge. What will become of them?)
They should probably get off, prob’ly should, get right off.
They should probably get off, big fat Baby.
(Not a cautionary tale, really. Just an observation. As if Tim and Baby were sitting at the top of the London Eye watching London Bridge begin to give way, saying to each other, “Hey, those people should probably head for the Tower.”)
Now the bridge is in the lake, in the lake, in the lake.
Now the bridge is in the lake, big fat Baby.
(I’m so relieved. This can’t be a true story, because London Bridge doesn’t span a lake. Whew!)
With that, Tim came out of Baby’s bedroom, closing the door gently. “He fell asleep in my arms,” he reported.