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| Young Me, circa 1996! |
I really wanted to be a Broadway singer from the time I was very young.
My parents both loved musicals; I grew up with On My Own and I Dreamed a Dream as lullabies, and "Show-tune Saturday Night" on the radio every weekend. I was obsessed with the Les Mis 10th anniversary concert (which we had on... VHS) and I'm pretty sure I had all the words to every song memorized WAY before I was old enough to comprehend what any of it meant (Lovely Ladies and Master of the House are TOTALLY appropriate for a 10 year old... right??)
Anyhow, I would practice and practice, belting my heart out to soundtracks I'd borrowed from the library when I thought (or just kinda hoped) no one could hear. I knew in my soul that this was my destiny (kinda like that girl from Glee).
The only problem was, I am not, nor have I ever been, a fantastic singer.
Oh sure, I'll bet I'm not the WORST you've ever heard, I can kinda carry a tune sometimes, but I definitely am not broadway, or even high-school, musical material. And, after overhearing a couple of critical comments about my singing, the extraordinarily sensitive child that I was became completely unable to sing in front of people... and I'm not even talking about like on stage in front of a crowd, I mean, like in a car when everyone is singing a long to the radio.
I prayed so often that God would give me the voice I wanted. The voice I needed. A voice big enough to express the enormousness of the emotions that I couldn't seem to share with words. I knew that If I could just sing, I could get those feelings out, I could make people understand... I knew it, because every time I heard Lea Salonga sing
A Little Fall of Rain, or Colm Wilkinson sing
Bring Him Home, they could make me feel the emotions of the characters they portrayed. So I prayed, and prayed a lot... I also cried a lot, because that prayer was never answered.
God never sent me a beautiful voice.
Eventually, though, he sent me something else instead.
He sent me a baby.
I remember sitting in a rocking chair, trying to comfort my squirmy little newborn, doing whatever I could to finally get her to sleep. I sang to her, and I felt so incredibly self-conscious because I knew my hubby could possibly overhear me singing.
Over the months, and now years, since I've become a mother, I've sung a LOT of songs... and little by little, the anxiety and self-consciousness have faded to the point that I don't really care anymore if people hear my singing.
Do I always sing on key? No. Do I always hit the right notes? No. But it's ok.
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| Miss Evie, circa 2014 ;) |
Tonight, as I was trying to get that now two year old little girl to sleep, I started singing her the songs that I've sung a million and a half times (ie. every night a bedtime). As soon as I opened my mouth, she started singing along too. She sang every word right with me as loudly as she could (probably trying to keep herself awake), with her cute little baby vibrato and so much enthusiasm.
And I realized,
I may never be Eponine, or Maria, or Elphaba, or even that one girl from Glee, but my babies don't care. For now, at least, I am just as good as any professional singer, to them. They love my voice, just like I loved my own mommy's voice. It will soothe them when they are sad, comfort them when they are hurt, and that is more than enough.
And it always has been enough, I just never realized it. I don't care that it's not perfect, it is beautiful to the ones that are most important to me, and that is a gift I've come to appreciate so very much.
