Last Wednesday night, the house resounded with falsetto yelps.
Once again, my husband had decided to train his voice.
Dozens of voice training videos on YouTube tantalized him with results. “Try this, Friend! You can sound like Richie Sambora!”
Egor settled on his favorite few. He practiced interminably throughout the holiday vacation.
Thanksgiving day, he practiced the “Mee mee MEE mee mee MEE” voice exercise lampooned on old cartoons.
Every few minutes we would hear “Mee mee MEE mee mee MEE,” followed by throat clearing and another “Mee mee MEE mee mee MEE.” He took breaks to drink water and eat. The rest of the time he sang.
Concerned, my mother asked me if he was okay. I told her yes, it’s just his thing.
Sunday evening, my husband switched exercises.
“WHOOO-ooooo-oooo,” he howled. “What’s that noise!” hollered Tyoma from his bedroom. “WHOOO-ooooo-oooo,” repeated Egor. “What’s that NOISE!” countered Tyoma.
This exchange lasted until my exhausted son fell asleep.
Last night’s exercise was, “EEEEEEE-uuPP.” “Papa! Stop that!” shouted Tyoma. And so on.
The good news is that Egor’s practice sessions signal a long-lasting cheerful mood.
The bad news is that in time he will realize his devoted practice will not give him Bon Jovi’s awesome mixed voice talent. Discouraged, he will abandon his training for another six weeks.
I like my husband’s ee-ups, whoos and mees. I even like my son’s half-hearted irritability over them. The swinging cycle of confidence and dismay flavors our ordinary suburban life.
Every cycle, my husband sings a bit better. Every cycle, the cheer lasts a little longer. One day, it will be all music.