I admit it: I can’t sing. I’m completely tone deaf, and my singing voice makes that very clear. But I love singing. I love singing along to the radio, I love singing with my kids. If I could change one thing about myself, I’d give myself a beautiful singing voice (and then I’d exploit the hell out of it and everybody would be so sick of listening to me).
Every night, Mellow requests that I sing her a song. Someday, she’s going to grow up and tell me never to sing around her again. Someday, she’s going to call me an embarrassment. But now, as a two-year-old, she thinks my voice is beautiful (or at least, I assume she thinks that). Her current favorite lullaby fluctuates between ‘Santa Claus is Coming to Town’ and the horribly depressing ‘Rock-a-bye Baby,’ or, as she calls it, ‘Wocka Wocka My Little Baby.’
I’m not a fan of singing about creepy men spying on my kids to determine how nice they are and whether they’re sleeping (seriously, Santa is a creepy concept!) or about babies falling out of trees, presumably to their deaths. But, hey, if that’s what my only willing audience wants, that’s what she gets.