Our Whistle
I wanted a way to communicate with Adrianna when we were out in public, a way to say “Hey, I’m over here,” or “Where are you? It’s time to go,” or even “Just so you know I see what you’re doing, so keep that in mind,” etc.
We came up with a whistle, a short little four-note motif that would voice the four syllables of her name: “Ahh – Dree – Ahh – Nah.”
I don’t know where the melody came from, other than it sort of mimicked the natural lilt of how her name sounded pronounced when calling it out.
The whistle was great because even at a low volume it could cut through the din of a crowd and reach her ears. She would either say, “I’m here, daddy,” or she’d come to me.
We might have been at Target and maybe I’d have turned my back for a second and then she wasn’t next to me, so I’d do the whistle and then invariably find her in one of her favorite spots, the shoe section.
Or, she might be in line about to go down a big slide at The Discovery Zone and I’d see her anxiously looking around for me to make sure I was watching her about to take the plunge, so I’d do the whistle. Her eyes would then find me sitting with the other parents and she’d smile.
We did it so much that my cockatiel at the time learned the whistle as well, and the smart bird would often do it whenever she entered the room.
It was a great way to communicate: better than a furtive wave from the crowd to get her attention, easier to hear and echolocate in a throng of other kids or a maze of shopping aisles. It was also our own secret little connection that we both loved.
When she was older, during those years from about 12 to 16 when she was still a child who needed her parents but also wanted to begin to display independence and not be treated “like a little kid,” the whistle was an unobtrusive thing that didn’t cause her embarrassment when she was with her friends. She knew I was looking for her, and she’d nonchalantly let me know where she was or come to me and no one else but the two of us were the wiser.
Four little notes that kept us connected.
I’ll let you in on a little secret: I did the whistle the morning that she left us, hoping that somehow she would hear me, letting her know where I was, hoping that she’d return but of course knowing she wouldn’t.
I like to imagine she’s too busy trying on some shoes to hear me right away.
But hopefully one day.
We came up with a whistle, a short little four-note motif that would voice the four syllables of her name: “Ahh – Dree – Ahh – Nah.”
I don’t know where the melody came from, other than it sort of mimicked the natural lilt of how her name sounded pronounced when calling it out.
The whistle was great because even at a low volume it could cut through the din of a crowd and reach her ears. She would either say, “I’m here, daddy,” or she’d come to me.
We might have been at Target and maybe I’d have turned my back for a second and then she wasn’t next to me, so I’d do the whistle and then invariably find her in one of her favorite spots, the shoe section.
Or, she might be in line about to go down a big slide at The Discovery Zone and I’d see her anxiously looking around for me to make sure I was watching her about to take the plunge, so I’d do the whistle. Her eyes would then find me sitting with the other parents and she’d smile.
We did it so much that my cockatiel at the time learned the whistle as well, and the smart bird would often do it whenever she entered the room.
It was a great way to communicate: better than a furtive wave from the crowd to get her attention, easier to hear and echolocate in a throng of other kids or a maze of shopping aisles. It was also our own secret little connection that we both loved.
When she was older, during those years from about 12 to 16 when she was still a child who needed her parents but also wanted to begin to display independence and not be treated “like a little kid,” the whistle was an unobtrusive thing that didn’t cause her embarrassment when she was with her friends. She knew I was looking for her, and she’d nonchalantly let me know where she was or come to me and no one else but the two of us were the wiser.
Four little notes that kept us connected.
I’ll let you in on a little secret: I did the whistle the morning that she left us, hoping that somehow she would hear me, letting her know where I was, hoping that she’d return but of course knowing she wouldn’t.
I like to imagine she’s too busy trying on some shoes to hear me right away.
But hopefully one day.
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