She killed Springsteen

Early Sunday morning. I’m sitting at the table, working on my next book. Springsteen is playing on the Amazon Echo. Brilliant Disguise at the moment. One of my favorites of his songs.

My fingers are moving fast. Words are leaping on to the page. I’m feeling it.

Charlie creeps into the room, still bleary eyed. Tottering. Spiderman pajamas.

“Good morning,” he whispers.

“Good morning, Charlie.”

He walks over to me, hops into my lap, kisses me on the cheek, and says, “Can you stop this music and play Beethoven’s 9th Symphony?’

I nearly drop him. “You want what?”

“Beethoven’s 9th Symphony.”

“Who did this to you?” I ask, but before he can even answer, I know.

Kaia. The beloved much babysitter and dear friend of the family. My colleague. The musician who taught my wife to play the ukulele and apparently spent at least a portion of last night teaching my son about Beethoven’s 9th Symphony and God knows what else.

Clearly not Bruce Springsteen.

Kaia. All she had to do was keep my son alive, cook him a little food, and send him off to bed.

Instead she’s taught my son to love a symphony that I will be forced to listen for about 20 minutes before he’s finally had enough and totters off to the living room to watch Captain Underpants.

Sometimes a babysitter can be too good.

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