My Encounter with Tom Waits

Last week I was standing chatting to a friend, whose two-year-old daughter was milling around her legs in an effort to prevent grown-up chatter, when just as we sailed past the one-minute mark in our conversation, I heard the most awful, discordant growling. It was pitched low and throaty, and my visceral instinct immediately told me that an animal was in pain. I looked around. I looked at my friend. I looked again.

She smiled. And looked down. Apparently the source of the agonizing sound was emanating from her daughter. "Is she all right?" I asked, thinking that her daughter was either about to vomit or need emergency treatment. "Oh yes," my friend proudly declared, "she likes to sing."

That was singing? Are you kidding? Seriously, dirty old drunks falling over and cursing in the gutter sound better than this two-year-old. I thought the child was in pain, and if she wasn't, I certainly was.

My friend added that she and her daughter just love to go to "mini music class with mommy and me." I think I was so stumped at this point I just managed to smile in a concerned way (concerned for the other class participants). Really, is there a nice way to point out that her daughter sounds like Tom Waits? Not that there's anything wrong with Tom Waits - but it's very disconcerting to hear his version of Old MacDonald coming out of the elfin body of a two-year-old. Just very wrong.