Saturday, June 6, 2009
Sing, Sing A Song
My wife sings like a bird. She is a trained, at times professional, singer. Her specialty, as she so aptly puts it, is “Show stopping jazz hands” numbers.
I, on the other hand, am what you may call a destroyer of tone. Mostly what comes out of my face sounds like a cat being strangled while clawing a chalkboard. I also hate harmony. I think it’s the work of the devil. Whenever Diana tries to harmonize with me I put my hands over my ears and rock back and forth.
Through the magic of genetics, Elijah has inherited Diana’s love of singing, but my complete lack of ability.
It is so very very cute to see him watch Sesame Street now. He knows all the songs, if not every word. And his bizarre monotone slash robotic utterings is freaking hilarious. It’s kind of hard to describe how he sounds over the blog. But if you happen to be reading this along side brilliant physicist, Stephen Hawking, he will give you an idea.
He also sings himself to sleep. Which is melt your heart adorable. He will chirp the Alphabet song over and over. But, given his robotic tone, it sounds like someone left a Speak ‘N Spell on in his room.
Right now, Diana is singing with him in the tub. He is belting it out at the top of his lungs along side her. Grover is in office with me with his paws over his ears.