I can’t sing. I’ve always known that my singing is frightening and wrong. I learned very young that mouthing the hymns in church would save me from raised eyebrows and scowls. My inability to express my love of music was the first thing that led me to learn ASL but that is a story for another day. It didn’t take more than a few toddler hands placed over my mouth with the warning “Stop singing Mommy” to teach me to keep my deep, nasal-toned mouth shut. Since Amy has started going to preschool two mornings a week I have found myself doing something I haven’t done since I quit working. I have been singing to myself. Apparently I’m tone deaf as well as a bad singer because not only does my singing not bother me, it makes me feel good. Better than good. Groovy. So good that I may just interpret Evan’s first “No singing Mommy” plea as a sign that he is ready for a two day a week preschool.

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