American Idol...

I'm not really a good singer. No one is ever going to discover me on My Space or see me on American Idol (there's a joke in there somewhere about William Hung I'm too tired to find it. I will say there's no room for me, even in the gag reels because, a.) I'm too old to audition and therefore show the world how awful I truly am, and b.) even if I fell into the age category deemed "idol-worthy", no way in hell I'm hanging out in those lines waiting to audition). In college I dated a musician who humbly requested that I NOT sing in the car (I had a tendency to whisper-sing at the time and was apt to whistle my "s"'s--it was apparently offensive to his artist's ears. Insert eye roll here). But I can't really blame him. No one would ever really deem me a "singer".

But still, I love to sing. I was in the high school choir, I excel at kareoke (with the correct amount of alcohol coursing through my system) and I am one of those people who tends to think I become invisible while driving, and I have been known to sing entire soundtracks to Broadway musicals while in my car. Once, when I still lived in my hometown, I was driving to my parents' house, listening to Les Miserables. At a traffic light on Main St., I was right in the middle of the pre-intermission medley--"Do You Hear the People Sing", and I was singing like I was right there on the stage in my rags and smudgy face (I'd have to be one of the miserables, you know) and who pulled up next to me but my dad, on his way home from work? Yup. There I am, singing at the top of my lungs, windows open and all, and I turn my head to see my dad laughing at me. Good times.

So I've had lots of encouragement along the way, right?

Well, I'll tell you does love my singing. Ethan. The other night, from a sound sleep, the poor guy woke up, screaming. We discovered it was the result of trying to wean him off his laxative (what's a mommy-blog without at least some discussion of poop, people?) and the fact that the dose he'd received that day was not enough to, shall we say, fulfill it's purpose. Therefore Ethan was experiencing significant discomfort and let us know with a rousing rendition of "there's an alien digging its way out of my bum", otherwise known as--screaming bloody murder.

Even after the fact, there was much screaming and crying. And to counter said screaming and crying, we tried rocking and hugging and kissing. No good. More screaming and crying.

The first thing that came to mind was a Laurie Berkner song about the moon. And so I started to sing it and the most amazing thing happened. He absolutely, completely stopped crying. Immediately. And he just looked at me and listened to me sing. By the time I was done singing the song, he was asleep, the tears drying up on his flushed little cheeks as I laid him back down on the bed.

I do realize that it's possible that he stopped crying because the warbling noises coming out of my mouth confused him and demanded attention in the same way as does, say, a car accident. And perhaps falling back to sleep was his only means of escape. That is certainly a distinct possibility.

But I prefer to believe that, even if no one else wants to hear me sing (and who can blame them?), Ethan is my biggest fan.