There was nothing I had ever felt that was quite as mournful as the experience of knowing I had a reason to fear for my mother's life. She was not at all well, and no one was helping her to get well fast enough. It brought everything into perspective for me. It heightened the love and appreciation that I have had for her my whole life. And still I can't find words that adequately describe the horrible longing I felt not to be "orphaned," not to lose my mother.

I brought her the most beautiful flowers I could find and a walkman because she could not sit up for long, but she could lay there and listen to Mozart and Enya and -- I hoped -- use the music to travel and heal and get better. I felt so happy to bring her something original and useful and right. Its cords were added to all the others that were running all up and down her, sticking into her. My mother was wired. While she was there, the hospital was a place to concentrate my heart and soul. I thought of her body getting better. I hoped that every cell was thanking her for the concert. With all the drugs and doctors and therapies and counter-therapies, there was Mozart, too.

My mother was still in the hospital when I flew home from that visit. But one day, after weeks and weeks of captivity, she called and left a message for me at work. She was home. They had let her go, had taken her off of the monitors and tubes. It was music to my ears.

Motherese

The mother-child bond grows even before the first understanding that this mothering person means you well. The bond changes and stretches throughout life -- and sometimes it breaks. It begins early. Even before delivery, in the womb, might not a baby grow accustomed to the sound of her mother's heartbeat? I don't remember, but it seems this is something musicians, and in particular, percussionists, understand quite well and incorporate into what they do which makes us move hypnotically. There are devices parents can place in their baby's crib that will mimic this sound and help the child sleep. It will emulate or recreate the familiar.

The child's new environment certainly must seem off kilter. Much more dramatic than moving into a new apartment, for instance. Once out of the womb, there is no regular beat. And there are other sounds, too. Doors and footsteps and big brothers. And, of course, the sound that seems to issue instinctively (without lessons) from their own throats.

And in the "animal" kingdom, the same must be true. I heard someone say they placed a metronome near their weaning puppies to simulate the sound of the mother's heartbeat. Testing labs must be full of animal young longing for that missing sound -- assurance of food and protection. Can you imagine! When they are encaged together, perhaps the sound of their fellows nearby serves a surrogate function. There's no one ready with a metronome, I'm sure.

They say a baby can distinguish her mother's voice from other voices and even the voices of family and friends, who may have delighted in one-sided conversations with the baby on a regular basis, perhaps lifting up the mother's shirt.

For a baby, her mother's voice must be a special kind of music. The newborn must take solace in knowing that although her environment has changed, her mother is there. And so it is her voice that must first identify her as the familiar figure who always seemed to be around as the months went by before --and after -- birth. For the mother's face is not yet visible. One might imagine that the newborn would be capable of identifying mother by her scent, as well. And by other avenues, too?

When mothers -- and fathers and anyone confronted with a baby in their midst -- speak to the little ones, they often use what is commonly called baby talk. I am fond of using a different term I once came across: Motherese. Motherese is a singing language, with a simplified syntax and a reduced vocabulary. It brings all of humanity down to the baby's level of comprehension. So, say if you were talking to an adult and you said: "Look, the ranunculus have grown. I thought for sure we planted the bulbs too late. That new plant food we bought sure works. Maybe we should try it on the Ficus Benjamini." In Motherese, you could just say: "Flower, pretty."

Talking to a baby gives her the material from which to join the human race. Guidebooks for parents advise: repeat the sounds your baby makes. And also, mimic the sounds in the environment. Make duck noises! Oink! Grunt! Bark! Squeek! Moo! Even if you live in the city, many classic farm yard sounds abound, though it's true that they are mostly replicas with a not-quite-realistic microprocessed hum. "Moo!" sounds quite different when it is digitally sampled with reverb and coming out the front of your computer. Let's say that you do have a great setup, it's still probably an uncommon sound in the average city baby's day. Other manufactured animal sounds are available. Not quite a trip to the zoo, though the animals do sound trapped: like they're actually inside that little plastic box they have in those "Touch Me and Listen!" books.

Baby language is cute! It must make up for some of the hardship of parenting. Cuteness is important to parenting. Scientists would even agree. I remember once reading a newspaper headline that said something like: "Proven: baby dinosaurs were cute!" This fact was key to the hypothesis that cuteness fosters in the parent a desire to nurture; the large-eyed baby dinosaurs with pudgy feet inspired in their caregivers a feeling of parental warmth, which would help the young to survive. In other words, they were not abandoned once hatched.

Mothers and fathers report that their babies like car rides. The idea seems to be that the whoosh of the air sounds like the blood coarsing past the womb. It's a soothing surround-sound reminder of that safe, warm place. Parents can use this technique when their offspring push away hundreds of dollars worth of toys purchased to keep the child entertained -- or was it to complement the livingroom decor? When your child wants nothing but to cry, try a nice drive: It's all the better if you have a Volvo, noted "safe vehicle." This way, you do not challenge fate by entering the chariot race- style freeway driving of today. It is no place for children!

While their drowsy heads become too heavy to hold up, sitting in their triple-reinforced car seats, they can finally get some rest! We adults find it hard to get into the high-fidelity sound of freeway music. Is this proof that we have lost touch with that first sound environment in which we came to be? Whatever you do, while you go down the road, baby in tow, stay awake at the wheel!

Perhaps you will think ahead and bring along a nice book on tape. NPR is also an excellent antidote to the somniferent poppies lining the yellow brick road. We'll have no flockita-flockita of car tires on asphalt and cement lulling you to sleep! Yes, the stentorian voice of a paid actor reading the latest thought of the day, or a great classic, will help you resist the impulse to doze right off and join your baby in her naptime.

While you tour the town with baby, how about something by Dr. Spock. He is writing about adults now, I recently read. For young readers, many parents consulted Dr. Spock for advice on parenting -- baby boomer mommies and daddies. Now, Spock is writing about gerontological issues. There is something beautifully symmetrical about this: first, he teaches parents how to take care of their children, and now he's teaching children how to take care of their parents.