Bad Opera

Rumor has it I once told my little sister, Laura, to quit breathing, which is a lie.  I told her that several times.  Her allergy-blocked nasal passages offended my tender teenage nerves, and after a stressful day at Corona del Sol High School, learning stuff and wheeling projectors to classrooms (my sole responsibility as media specialist) what I really needed was peace, a virgin margarita, and quiet, not my sister doing her best to stay alive. If I had known what cacophony awaited me in motherhood, the shouting matches over who wore what (You need to ask!  You weren’t around!), the endless piano practicing, the dog barking, the canned laughter from kid sitcoms, not to mention Peter yelling that he’s hungry AGAIN, my sister’s heavy breathing would have sounded as soothing to me as a wave machine.  I have mellowed over the years.  As our family has grown, my need for tranquility has lessened, and it’s a good thing since Scarlett, our sixth child, came into the world with a song in her heart—a joyful song, but also loud, screechy, and completely out of tune.  I like to refer to it as bad opera, and I happen to be a big fan.

My teenage self wouldn’t have seen the point in listening to bad opera.  She would have looked up from her homework, a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding expression on her face, and told (more like,

shouted at) Scarlett to knock it off.  And when Scarlett dissolved into tears, Teenage Lisa would have grabbed the car keys and headed for the library.  My young-mother self would have tolerated her for a while then asked her sweetly to try and see how long she could go without making a single noise, in the closet.  I’m joking.  Still, faced with bad opera, my young-mom self wouldn’t have lasted long.  But the experienced mom in me saw the beauty in bad opera, how it came from a cheerful place, followed no predictable melody, and was unfettered by worry about what others might think. Her song was music, at least to my ears, because of what it meant--Scarlett was happy. 

Wondering if singing bad opera could make you happy, I once tried my version of it in a grocery store and was quickly shown the door.  Apparently it is an art form intended only for adorable little girls, and that’s okay.  I’m just glad I got to hear it with Scarlett, but it leaves me wondering what arias I missed while my older girls were little.  I remember once sitting in our front room, a strained smile on my face, talking pleasantries with an out-of-town guest.  I was doing my best to appear at ease and happy, but truth was I was overwhelmed by the work of having four kids, particularly at a time when finances were slim.  When he gestured toward our four small children and said, “This looks like fun,” I was stunned.  Did it look like fun?  Was anything fun about four little kids in a tiny rental?  Of course there was, but the sweet music of that era sometimes sounded like noise to me.  I’m older now. All but one of those four children have left home for college, so you’d think I’d be a bad opera connoisseur, but sometimes still I can let worry, stress, fatigue, and even People magazine rob me of my “music” appreciation skills.  In the past this might have caused me to lose my cool, but I’ve learned from my mistakes.  Now I just down half a bottle of gin.  Again, I’m joking.  True, bad opera is an acquired taste, but appreciating it enriches parenthood.  After all, they’re only little once.