Cameron’s arms were wrapped around me as we snuggled in bed, his forehead against my cheek. There’s just something peaceful about quiet Christmas carols. I’m not a big fan of my own singing – it sounds weak and I miss notes at the best of times, so tonight with a sore throat and fighting a cough I’m sure it didn’t sound great to anyone’s ears except Cameron’s. I kept singing as he drowsily requested, slipping into a Benadryl-assisted sleep (he’s covered in hives!), gradually matching his breath to mine through the first verse or two of Silent Night, The First Noel, Once in Royal David’s City, We Three Kings, and finally What Child is This.
Some of my favourite memories are sprinkled with music. Mom humming to me in bed late at night when I couldn’t sleep, although I know I mocked my mother’s singing harshly as I grew into adolescence. Dad singing in the garage, or holding me at the living room window, looking out at the moon and the snow (hmm, again when I couldn’t sleep), Grandma singing snatches of hymns and other music as she puttered around and the few times we went to Easter Sunday services with her. Even still, there are some notes in my mind that when I ‘hear’ them in my head, it’s her voice I hear. Some are my father’s.
My inner critic says, “Yeah, too bad you can’t make your voice sound like that.”
But as I kissed Cameron’s sleeping forehead, I know that I’m close enough. And here, now, that’s what matters.
(Sorry I’ve been quiet here. Been super tired and busy, and just … not up for writing. Things are good, and we’ve been having lots of fun and adventures to write about, but evenings just seem a little filled up somehow)