The Whistle

Since he was really little, my son has been desperate to whistle.  He would say, “Hey Pops, listen to this.”  Then he would blow spit everywhere while making a weird noise.  It was essentially monosyllabic singing while making kissy lips. I would explain that it was more of a hum than a whistle and demonstrate the difference. I am not a great whistler and a lousy teacher. He practiced a lot. He has been working on his whistle for almost five years.  That is like 76.9% of his life. Over the Christmas holiday, he finally got it. Out of nowhere, he just started whistling.  He was sitting alone, playing with some Legos, making the weird spitty noise and it just came out. I was so proud.  He taught himself to whistle. Then the pride quickly changed to something else.  He could whistle but he couldn’t change the tone. He spent nine straight days whistling the same pitch.  I think he was even doing it in his sleep. Mrs. Brother Jack has the patience of Job but even she reached her breaking point.  “I’m so proud of you, now stop whistling… forever.”       


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