A Great Injustice

I have to tell you something. This is the saddest thing, and I haven't wanted to admit it, but I've decided it's true. Here goes.... my baby doesn't like it when I sing. sigh. Oh, ok, maybe that's too general a statement. She likes it when I sing "horsey horsey" or "sleep tight, sand-man's a comin'" or anything else a'capella and sweet, baby-ish. But when I sing -- I mean really sing, I mean if my guitar or my piano is involved sing -- she starts to cry. I've been trying to gradually get her used to it, but she just doesn't like it. I think the power and resonance of my voice, at its most passionate (or even just kinda passionate) sounds too much like crying or yelling to her. Maybe it's just too loud (not that can't be it, because it's even if she's on the other side of the room). For whatever reason, it's too much for her.

This makes me so sad. I always imagined singing my heart out to my little girl, and I can't do it. I can't even sing in my own house. Not when she's awake because she cries. Not when she's asleep because it wakes her up. I can't sing. I have been silenced. Because there is nothing so unbearable as doing something that makes your baby look up at you with sweet, clear blue eyes; makes her face turn downward, her eyebrows furrow; makes her bottom lip start to quiver; makes her eyes start to glisten; makes her open her mouth and start to sob. I can't do it.

And so the musician's guitars sit in their hangers collecting dust. The piano languishes toward out-of-tune. My fingers become soft as the callouses heal. Songs remain unsung. Lullabies remain unwritten. My heart continues to bust its seams without expression.

This is so unfair.