I really am not that bad a singer

We do a lot of singing in our household. This is not because we’re especially talented at it, but more because it’s fun. We’re always drumming, singing, or humming. The songs that I know (mostly classic rock with a heavy does of 80’s movie and TV themes) are significantly different than the songs that they know, so it makes for an interesting household.

Of course, I’ve been learning the kiddie songs by osmosis. Hear something long enough, and you can’t help but to asborb some of it.

The other night at dinner, C had to leave for a sudden bathroom break. His mom went with him, leaving his little brother and I at the table by ourselves. He immediately started crying that he wanted to go potty too. Why, after all, should his brother have all the fun?

Unsuccessful at normal communications, I started drumming on the table. I was doing a pretty good little beat, too – not too complicated, but enough to be interesting. I’m sure I stole it from some ditty I’d heard at some time or other. At any rate, the little guy stopped crying and watched for a moment, and then said “No Drumming! No Drumming on Table!”

I laughed and said “Momma’s not here.”

“No! No drumming on table! On lap! On lap!”

He showed me by drumming on his lap, so I switched to my lap. Unfortunately, there’s only so long you can drum on your lap. Soon he was looking longingly towards the bathroom. “Potty? Potty?”

“How about a song instead?”


“La, la-la-la-la.” Okay, those “La”s look lame when you type them, but they’re the start to a pretty common kid’s song called “Sing, sing a song.” Usually, the kids join in right away, especially when you break out an encouraging smile and chair dance.

Instead, he interrupted. “No! No Singing!”

Hmph. Maybe he’d like something more mellow. “Yesterday, all my troubles seem so far awaaay”

“No! No Singing.”

Alright, everyone likes this one, I thought. “When I find myself in times of trouble, mother Mary comes to me, whisper words of wisdom, let it be, let it -”


Right there, at my own kitchen table, I was dying. Even with an audience of one, I was bombing. I switched to an old standby, “Stop! In the name of love, before you break my heart, think it oo-ver!”

“No!” He covered his ears. “You’re hurting my feelings. You’re hurting my feelings!”

At this point, of course, his mom and older brother returned. She looked at us, him covering his ears saying I was hurting his feelings, me sitting with my mouth hanging open. “I, uh, I was singing.” I said sheepishly.

She smiled, “you were hurting his feelings?”


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