One night in August when my son was about a month old, we hit that dreaded stage of inconsolable crying at 2 a.m. I had taken care of all the usual suspects in that he had a full tummy and a clean, dry diaper, clean onesie, and was swaddled in a soft cotton blanket — warm but not too warm — but he wouldn’t stop crying.

We paced, patted his back, jiggled him up and down, swayed him from side to side. Nothing seemed to help. I spoke to him softly, even tried that exaggerated singsong voice I swore I would never use because I hated hearing it when I was a child. He spit out the pacifier repeatedly because it interfered with his screaming. Aside from the fact that my husband needed to sleep because he was working with power tools the next day, we were nearing the volume level that would wake the neighbors.

The situation became desperate enough it was time for drastic measures. It was time to sing to him.

Now don’t get me wrong, I love to sing. But I took band in school, not choir, so I sing with a great deal more enthusiasm than actual skill. In fact I only sing at church, where my voice is drowned out by the rest of the congregation, or when I’m driving alone with the windows rolled up. While I was pregnant I often belted out songs while I was driving in part so my son would not be scared by my voice after he was born. My favorites were CDs of sea chanties (research, y’know).

But those performances were always with the backup of the radio or a CD. In the middle of the night, all alone except for the screaming infant in my arms, what could I sing? What songs did I know all the words to that did not require backup vocals? Hymns were out of the question since I was still so emotional about this precious gift from God (yes, the gift who was trying to make me deaf) that I got too choked up to speak, never mind sing.

After racking my brain, the only song to which I could remember all of the words was the theme to Gilligan’s Island.

In my single foray into the world of high school musical theater, part of the audition requirement was to sing a solo. I had no plans for a career on Broadway, but I really wanted to spend the six weeks of rehearsal hanging out with a boy I liked who did have vocal talent, and my voice would mingle unnoticed as part of the chorus. I agonized for days over my choice, which would have to be sung a cappella, and ended up singing the theme song to Gilligan’s Island. It’s simple, no multiple-octaves required (unlike the Star-Spangled Banner, a cliché choice by several of those auditioning), and I bet you’re hearing part of the tune in your head right now. (Just sit right back and you’ll hear a tale…) The show had aired everyday after school, between the Flintstones and Star Trek, so I knew the words by heart.

The drama teacher and choir director were incredulous (I still remember the you’ve-gotta-be-kidding-but-I’ll-give-you-points-for-chutzpah look on their faces) but my son Daniel loved it. By the time we got to the Professor and Marianne, Daniel had quieted down to hiccups.

This incident proved there are still a lot of gaps in my store of mom knowledge. I should know some actual lullabies, right? Colic seems to last forever, so I should expand my repertoire. Gilligan gets old the tenth or twelth time through, and I’m not sure I want Daniel to remember the lyrics to Liverpool Girls – a fun but salty 19th century sea chanty containing at least three words that don’t normally occur in my speech, not even when I stub my toe.

I did some research into lullabies and was utterly shocked by what I found. Here are two examples:

Hush, little baby, don’t say a word.
Papa’s gonna buy you a mockingbird

Isn’t this bribery? We’re teaching our children right from the cradle that if they do what we ask, we will give them something. When they get older, doesn’t this lead to extortion?

And if that mockingbird won’t sing,
Papa’s gonna buy you a diamond ring

And if that diamond ring turns brass,
Papa’s gonna buy you a looking glass

And if that looking glass gets broke,
Papa’s gonna buy you a billy goat

And if that billy goat won’t pull,
Papa’s gonna buy you a cart and bull
And if that cart and bull fall down,
You’ll still be the sweetest little baby in town.

The ending isn’t so bad though we’re still promising gifts in exchange for good behavior. But this lullaby is far less shocking than the next one I found:

Rock-a-bye, baby
In the treetop

Putting babies high up in a tree… does Child Protective Services know about this?

When the wind blows
The cradle will rock

Okay, rocking is good. This might help a baby go to sleep.

When the bough breaks
The cradle will fall.

Are we trying to freak out our kids?

And down will come baby
Cradle and all

Who wrote this, the Brothers Grimm? This is supposed to help a child feel safe and secure enough to go to sleep?

If these are the songs meant to soothe us as small impressionable children, I’m surprised we don’t grow up more dysfunctional than we are.

I think I’ll stick with Gilligan.