I consider myself more of a vocal stylist...

I know I’m a pretty good writer.

Please forgive me if that seems like an insufferable thing to say, but modesty, especially false modesty, has never been my thing.

Writing, on the other hand, is my thing. Always has been. My style may not be the stuff of Nobel-prize-winning tomes but nevertheless, the compulsion to write has been a part of me for so long I can’t imagine what it’s like to live without it.

If I am not writing, it means I am not well. No matter how difficult and distracting my life becomes, my ability to write, and to write in what I consider my trademark style, is a testament to my mental and emotional health.

Strange then, that I would gladly hang up my keyboard if only I could sing.

Because I can’t sing.

There I said it. Despite an abundance of musical talent in my family, I am a terrible singer. No matter how many times I have fortified myself with red wine and sang around a campfire or harmonized at a party or even (just the one time, praise God) taken to a coffeehouse stage with my guitar, I remain a terrible singer.

My husband, on the other hand, is a great singer. His punk band had a modest local hit in its day and reunited to wow the crowd at our wedding. His version of Margaritaville brings the house down whenever we stumble upon a karaoke bar and I am able to harangue him into performing.

And I do have to harangue him because, unlike me, he is modest. I find his reluctance to sing inconceivable, because if my voice was one-tenth as sweet and strong as his you would have to turn the hose on me to get me offstage.

I have been watching American Idol this year for the first time ever and listening to the performers every week induces in me a yearning so sharp and pure that I feel a physical ache in my gut.

Oh sure, writing is all well and good. But what I wouldn’t give to be able to sing like that? To be able to stop people in their tracks with the sweet lilt of my voice? To open my mouth and cause throats to swell and eyes to well and tiny hairs to prickle? To carry with me always a means to transport people to another place, another time?

Sigh.

I may be a terrible singer, but I continue to sing around the house on an almost constant basis. Our radio is always on and Rob and I have the following conversation several times a day.

Me: “I love this song. Want me to sing it to you?”
Rob: “No.”
Me: (turning down radio lest it obscure my voice): “Okay great!”

I have sung to Graham since the minute he was born. I sing songs about his hair, his nose, his poop, how much I love him, how silly he is, how pretty his mama is…(I told you modesty is not my thing).

And in the last few months my heart has swollen with pride as Graham has started to sing as well. He sings to the radio, he sings to the television, he begs me to play his favorite CDs and then sits and sways to the music, plaintively slurring over the words he doesn’t know and proudly shouting the ones he does.

My boy - the singer!

Maybe when he’s a rich and famous musician he’ll let his mama sing backup for him.

Or at least write the liner notes for his albums