I bought a CD for Anthony one Christmas and we played it loudly. It was opera and it was Ming’s first exposure to any music other than ‘The Wiggles’. He was four and a half.
From the time he heard that CD, Ming sang operatically all over the house. This lasted for about six months. Instead of saying all of his new words, he’d warble them. “Where’s teddyyyyyy?”; “Gimmeeeee gingereeeeeeella [ginger ale] – please Mummyyyyyyyy daaaaaaarliiiing” – were sung so powerfully that I was afraid the windows would shatter.
At pre-school he did the same. With no self-consciousness whatsoever, he’d trill, “I want red tractoooooor”; or “I havta blow my noooooooose.” Everything was sung, so much so that he became somewhat famous for his operatic voice. The other kids would say, “Sing opera, Ming” and he’d sing his little repertoire, grinning when everyone clapped.
Then he started singing an octave lower. When he was being a wolf, his growl would become a surprisingly deep warble. When he was playing cars, his ‘vrooming’ would transform into a thunderous baritone. The first time I heard this, I rushed into his bedroom, thinking he was having some sort of strange fit.
But, as suddenly as it started, the opera-singing stopped – bang. A friend I hadn’t seen for ages dropped in and, over coffee, mentioned she’d been taking opera lessons. I said, proudly, “Ming does opera – he’s amazing.”
She looked doubtful, but I introduced them to each other anyway, telling Ming that Ann was an opera singer.
“Your mother tells me you sing opera,” she boomed. (She was quite a large, boisterous woman). “Sing,” she commanded.
Ming looked at me, then looked at her, then looked at me again. He opened his mouth, then closed it on a croak.
“Do you want me to sing for you, then?” she asked Ming and he nodded shyly, but he didn’t look one bit keen. He climbed onto my lap for reassurance.
For the next five minutes, her enormous voice filled the house. The volume was alarming in its intensity. Ming clutched my hand, eyes wide with shock, and I felt my own pulse quicken with amazement.
After she left, Anthony came in from the dairy and said, “Why did you and your friend have that CD turned up so loudly? We could hear it over in the shed.”
I explained and he roared with laughter. “Where’s Ming?” he asked.
“He’s being a tiger in his room, I think,” I said.
“Are you sure? It’s so quiet.”
We both went and had a peek. Ming had his plastic tiger mask on and was snarling at an imaginary foe outside the window. The snarls were not musical; in fact, they were more like mimes.
He turned around and saw us, then whispered, very seriously, “I don’t do opwa anymore.”
Ming didn’t sing a note for days! It was a BeeGees special on TV that finally broke the silence, and we got our little singer back. He still does that falsetto thing marvelously!
jmgoyder 