Oh, the ways we torture our children.

When I was a child Up into my late teens, my father’s singing mortified me.  Which is not to say that he sang badly; it’s just that every time we went somewhere and he sat in the pew with us, he was very loud, and it always elicited comments from people in surrounding pews.  There was always the inevitable comment about him joining the choir.  But of course, he was a minister and had his own church, and we were just traveling.   I was busy just wanting to fit in, so this attention on top of being part of an unfamiliar church was dread inducing.

Fast forward to meeting M.  M hates shopping, particularly clothes shopping.  It is part of our implicit marriage contract that he be given 24 hours notice before he has to go clothes shopping. (Yes, I realize that due to the statute of frauds, this isn’t binding.)  If clothes shopping goes on too long, he might start singing, in a very rich baritone, the Gilligan’s Island theme song, or anything from the Weird Al oeuvre.  (Law students: think of it as liquidated damages.)  This used to embarrass me into cutting the shopping trip short.  Then I got over myself, and figured if he wants to sing, let him sing.  I had shopping to do.

And now there’s P.  P hates my singing, except for the 15% of the time when she wants me to sing.  I torture her when I sing.  She complains bitterly about it.  She covers her ears and yells.  Sometimes, though, it works to my advantage.

Today, she has been the biggest pill.  She spit bright, cherry red Tylenol onto my white duvet.  She has screamed and shrieked every time she hasn’t gotten her way.  She pulled a puzzle out, scattered the pieces, then yelled at me to pick it up. (Yeah, that works.)  Then she started bouncing her bouncy ball on the wood floor (the rule is only on tile).  At me.  So, I took the ball and walked over to the puzzle and told her she had to pick up the pieces before she could have her ball back. She shrieked and yelled and writhed on the floor and said, “No.  You do it.”

And so I sang.  And what do I know?  I know hymns.  I sang, “Holy, Holy, Holy” because it was stuck in my head, anyway (thanks, AG!).  P covered her ears and screamed – then started picking up pieces.  Slowly.  Then I moved on to “We Gather Together” (because it’s almost Thanksgiving, right?).   That did it.  All the pieces went into the box.

Although now she’s playing M’s very out of tune guitar, so I’m not sure who actually won this round.