If you ask a room of ten people what is the one thing they wish they could do well that they can’t, nine of them will say sing. The tenth person is William Hung.
I am in that group of nine. I have no illusions about my singing abilities. I have always wished I could sing well, but I know I can’t and I’m a little sensitive about it. And after you have a kid, there is a lot of pressure to sing and there is even this assumption that your kid will like it. Not so.
Even though I can’t sing worth a flip, I can compose a song on the spot — another one of my many non-income producing talents. And if you have a baby in the house, you already know that spontaneous lyrical composition is a parenting prerequisite and that they won’t even let you bring a baby home from the hospital if you can’t think of something that rhymes with poop.
So the other day, I was sitting on the floor bent over Sean changing his diaper and I started singing the “Changing The Diaper” song that I wrote that goes something like this:
Bottoms up, bottoms up,
Bottoms down, bottoms down,
You’ve got the cutest bottom in town!
After I sang the first line, he reached up and put his hand over my mouth and said, “Okay, but Just. Don’t. Sing.”
So I finished changing the diaper in smoldering silence. The nerve. He is insulting ME as I’m wiping HIS butt. Before I could make my knees work again to stand up, he grabbed my head and pulled me down to him and kissed me squarely on the forehead, punctuated with a big “MWAH!”
If my life were a broadway musical, I would have burst into song at that very moment. That is, if I could sing.