Monday morning started poorly as we readied ourselves for another day of first grade.

There was my son’s refusal to eat breakfast, his insistence on wearing an armful of Silly Bands (the equivalent of elementary school bling), and the cutting and spewing of glow-in-the-dark bracelets (“mom, is my eye yellow?  some of it splashed on my face?” !!!).  All before 8am.

Getting my drama out of the way by 8, however, left room for the rest of an uneventful day (thankfully), which culminated in the evening with the sweetness of music.  All non-toxic (but potentially skin-irritating) day glow goo was forgotten as I watched my son sit on a stool and play Baby.

When Jeb’s father, Rex, emailed me from India in 2002 that he had bought a guitar in Varanasi with the word “Baby” in the headstock, I tried not to take it as a sign of our potential fate.  But I couldn’t help wonder, as his email coincided with a vivid dream I’d had of a child in my womb.

Rex described sitting with sadhus by the Ganges  among the bones and smoking pyres.  The holy men strumming Baby til their fingers bled, leaving stains still visible on its wooden face.

The day after Rex’s return from his mystical India tour, Baby’s portent was realized.  Jeb was born into the world nine months later.

Jeb says, “This guitar has been a lot of places.  It’s pretty powerful…”

Indeed.