Whistler’s Mother

Eleanor has recently figured out how to whistle.  She’s very proud of it; it took her several weeks of practice to get to the stage where she is now — just barely tottering through “Hot Cross Buns” — and takes any opportunity to show off her new skill.

Whenever we arrive at a friend or family member’s house, she enters the front door whistling.  I usually have to point out what she’s doing in order to garner the appropriate level of appreciation.  (“Um, Eleanor’s whistling.  Not spitting at you.”)

Whenever I’m away from the family for an extended period of time, Eleanor always reminds me of her new skill within moments of my return.  “Mom, while you were gone at your thing, did you forget that I know how to whistle?”

Also, she’s always quick to remind me that, “if you ever are going through the house and need some music, Mom, just let me know and I’ll whistle for you.”

The other kids have tried picking this up, but without success.  Jeffrey just isn’t all that interested, while William often confuses whistling with high-pitched screaming.

“AAAAAAA!” he’ll yell, usually when I’m merging the car onto the freeway at rush hour.  “AAAAA!  Listen, Mom!  I whistling!  AAAAA!”

Crikey, my aching ears!

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