Singing the Blues

As I ferried Kenner to a friend’s house yesterday, as I am wont to do, I started singing along with a song on the radio.

From the passenger seat I soon heard the well-worn comment, ‘Dad, I hate it when you sing.’(Even Allyson will yell out, 'Stop it!' whenever I start singing.')

Trying to find out what part of my singing didn’t appeal to her, I asked her one of those probing questions that daddies often utilize.

‘And why is that?’

With a big smile and in a conversational tone--as if she were elucidating something for the benefit of someone not quite firing on all cylinders—she replied, ‘Because you sing terrible.’

I tried another parry, ‘Oh, I don’t know. When I sing, I sing just like a pretty bird.’

Pondering this for at least 0.006 seconds, she then retorted, ‘Then birds sing terrible.’

Who can argue with that logic?