Rose is a squealer. This morning she yelped, squealed and shrieked with such force that Chris kept opening the door of the bathroom to check that everything was okay. I could only shrug and wave him back to his morning routine.
You’ve got to give the girl credit: she’s got both range and capacity. She can squeal like a kid riding his* first rollercoaster, squeak like a mouse (amplified), and yawl like a cantankerous mog. You can tell she’s really interested in her new ability, and she’s giving it her full attention. I don’t actually mind her squealing too much; our apartment is very solid, you can’t hear the neighbours playing loud music so Rose surely can’t be bothering them. But I do worry about the “social consequences” of this new behaviour. For example, Rose and I are headed out to see a movie called “Once”§ this morning, and even though it’s a mums and bubs session, what if she squeals all the way through? And the 24-hour flight to the UK in a few weeks looms large. How will we keep her from squealing on the plane?
One thing’s for sure: nothing I do will keep her from her course. I’ve tried ignoring it, smiling, and of course there’s the old involuntary grimace when it’s particularly ear-splitting. It’s one of the only instances when she doesn’t look at me to see its effect or for reassurance; she’s pleasing herself.
(*I’m using the third person masculine purposefully. No one can squeal like a pre-adolescent boy.)
§POST-MOVIE UPDATE: For those of you that saw a previous version of this post, “Once” is not a biopic of Bob Dylan. It’s an Irish film about a busker who meets an immigrant girl and… well I can’t explain the plot without making it sound sappy. It’s incredible, by the way. I don’t know if it’s because I’m sleep-deprived or breastfeeding, but I wept like a baby at the end. Rose also loved it. She loved it so much she sang along.