I sound like a sick cat when I sing. Actually, more like a sick cat, in heat, that was recently attacked by a pack of wild dogs. It’s so bad that I lip sync in church. Even hundreds of people can’t drown me out.

My husband has a very nice singing voice…one he inherited from his Mom. (Did you hear that? It sounds like a pinball machine. Ching-ca-ching-ca-ching-ching. That’s me, racking up mother-in-law points.) My husband sings because HE CAN. Unlike me, he doesn’t send small children screaming, ‘Make it stop! Make it stop!’

Last year, our son had ear tubes put in. For a week after the surgery we put drops in his ears twice a day, and he would have to lie on each side for five minutes afterward. After 10 minutes of staying still, which is excruciating for a five year old, we would tell him, “Okay, you can get up. You’re free.”

That quickly turned into my husband singing a loose rendition of the Rolling Stones’ song, I’m Free. ‘You’re free to do what you want, any old time.’ As much as I hate to sing, I will do it for my kids…if I have to. Although, I would refer to it as a lyrical whisper.

For some reason, my son doesn’t mind my bad voice. Though, maybe, just maybe, his 25% hearing loss has something to do with it.

Last weekend, my husband and I were out of town when our son came down with a fever. My niece was babysitting and I told her to give him Tylenol. Apparently when she got the Tylenol out of the container, she referred to them as “bad boys”. As in, ‘Let’s see if these bad boys will make you feel better’.

So this past week, we gave our son Tylenol and he would call them “bad boys”. And now, my husband belts out the theme from COPS every time he medicates him. My son wants me to sing, but in my quiet voice I’m doubting the criminals would be all that intimidated.

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I was just finishing up the laundry when my husband asked, “Did you wash my collars?”

“Collars? Was I supposed to do something special with your collars?”

“I needed my collars washed?”

“Well, I did the laundry.”

“But, did you wash my collars?”

“As in they had rings around them?”

“No! As in COLORS!”

When you marry a southern gentleman, sometimes you need a translator.

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At the bank last week, the teller handed my son a sucker and then asked him, “How old are you?”

He replied, “I’m five. And, my Mom is 16!”

But, why I felt the need for nervous laughter and to say, “No I’m not”, I’ll never know. I’m pretty sure the wrinkles speak for themselves.

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When I was dropping off my son at pre-school this morning, he pointed to a heavy-set lady, with white hair and a red hat. When he sticks that finger toward someone, I know something bad is about to be said, but I couldn’t hurry him along despite my best efforts.

Now he’s starting to give multiple put-downs, because as he was pointing at this woman, he said, “Look Mom! There’s Santa’s brother!”

I can’t decide what’s worse…being insulted by a five year old, getting called a man, or being told that you resemble a jolly old elf.

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