I’ve been told...

...that I have a great radio voice. It’s been described as very deep and tranquil. The type of voice you’d expect to hear late Saturday night on an obscure FM number far down the dial announcing a forgotten ballad from an era that only exists over the airwaves. And if I "whiten" up my voice a little youmight even be able to hear it on your local NPR station, giving everyone the play-by-play of the traffic and weather. It’s comforting to know that if this corporate thing doesn’t work out I can always fall back on whispering sweet nothing’s into a certain demographics ear and get paid for it. Either that or go back to telemarketing.

The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away as well.

I can’t sing. In fact, I s*ck. The sound of my singing voice has caused birds, squirrels and other woodland creatures to flock from the trees in search of higher ground, had people mistake me for being a throat cancer survivor, and caused newlyweds to have their very first argument over why I was invited to their wedding, allowed to drink so much and get a hold of the microphone. The real kick in the teeth is…I love to sing. I do it all the time. I’m just responsible enough to do it where it won’t cause anyone permanent nerve damage. So, when my pregnant co-worker introduced the concept of choosing a song that could be repeated throughout your childhood and would eventually become “your song” I was naturally intrigued for my love of music, but hesitant for my lack of vocal talent. But, I decided that having a song that would soothe you when you are uncomfortable or in distress, tell you that although times may get rough….they will get better, and would speak to you when I am unable, was more important than my insecurities. So, I extensively searched my mental musical library and after a few months of, “No, that’s not it. Too depressing.” I came up with your song. It’s funny, it was right under my nose.

Now your mother has spent the last month laughing at me because I do not have the same put-you-to-bed skills as she has. After all that work I did to find your song, when it was bedtime and I sang it to you, you decided that all you wanted to do was scream, kick, and scratch the hell out of me. For up to an hour at times...all while your mother snickered in the other room and got her jollies on. And I have to admit I was getting frustrated for a minute….with you, your mother and the whole damn “your song” idea. But I kept at it, night after night, until you didn’t fight as much. And the next few nights proved that it wasn’t a fluke. Then I could count the number of times you’d need to hear the song before falling asleep.

Finally!

Now when I cradle you and start singing your song I have the confidence of a World Wide Wrestling Federation Superstar who has just locked his opponent in a tight sleeper-hold. I know that it won’t be long before you are down for the count.

(And now I get to snicker at your mother trying to light the grill. She’s going to set herself on fire one of these days...with all that screaming and running around the house she does.)