On that note. . .

I love to sing. In fact, prior to my career change, I actually was paid for singing! That's right, boys, people paid me to entertain them with my voice. So, imagine my dismay when my children even as toddlers began to complain and cringe whenever I sang. It was painful. I've shared this hurt with the boys. I've told them how much I enjoy singing and how much it hurts my feelings when they ask me not to sing. So, being the sensitive and generous children that they are, whenever I start singing lately, they've started to engage me in conversation or ask me turn the radio louder instead of asking me to stop singing. I suppose that tactic is a bit better, but it still smarts. I do not regret trading my vocal training for potty training, but GOODNESS GRACIOUS, it'd be nice to have a receptive audience once in a while when I get the music in me.

I remember being a child and LOVING to listen to my Dad sing. Some of my fondest memories are of my Dad and his brothers gathered around my grandparents' table with their guitars, singing what has become the songbook of my childhood. I loved listening to them so much that I recall sitting under the table, at my Dad's feet just to get as close as possible to the harmonic sounds.

Not so with these boys. The moment I start singing anything other than the Happy Birthday Song or the ABC's, eyes roll, their little hands fly up to their ears or they ask me to turn the radio up in the car so they can't hear me. I would be totally disgraced except for the fact that I recall an interview I watched on TV years ago with a famous singer--Whitney Houston? Martina McBride? Amy Grant?--who was asked if she sang to her children and what they thought of that. I remember distinctly (although I can't distinctly remember who this star was) that she responded that her children didn't actually like for her to sing to them. I also remember thinking it so odd that a child wouldn't want to hear his mother sing--especially if his mother was Whitney or Martina, or Amy.

Now, I do not fancy myself even near the caliber of singer of any of these ladies, but I can carry a tune. Still my children scoff. Still my soul yearns to sing.

So, imagine my sheer delight yesterday in the car when Faith Hill's Breathe came on and I began to sing without the usual grumbling from the captives in the back. Not a single "can you please turn the radio up?" In fact, after the song was over, my #2 inquired, "Mom, did you sing with that song?" I confirmed that, yes I had. To which he observed, "Wow, you didn't even sound like you."

I'm flattered, again. I think.