DIANE MAKAR MURPHY 'Do-re-mi-fa-so-la-ti ... NO!'

I love to sing.
When my son Josh was a baby, I delighted in singing him to sleep. I'd always been a closet singer, so it was a dream come true -- an appreciative audience every night.
On top of requesting the "Alphabet Song" repeatedly, Josh permitted me to croon to my heart's content. I themed my lullaby sessions. Some nights, I belted out patriotic tunes like "Yankee Doodle," "When Johnny Comes Marching Home," and, so as not to slight the Confederates, "Dixie."
TV tribute: I had a television medley: "Green Acres," "The Beverly Hillbillies" and "The Patty Duke Show." Remember, "While Cathy adores the minuet, the Ballet Russe and cr & ecirc;pes suzette, our Patty likes to rock 'n' roll, a hot dog makes her lose control ..."
Then there were love songs, songs with rain in the title (oh yeah, I was stretching it), nursery rhymes, songs MY parents had sung to me, and, gosh darn it, Christmas songs, no matter what the time of year. I can't even remember all my themes. Baby Josh listened intently.
I was, therefore, greatly surprised at my new daughter's reaction to the same repertoire. She said, "No" -- one of Hannah's first words. (I sometimes wonder if my singing wasn't one of the reasons "No" WAS one of her first words.)
Pitch seeker: Talk about a crushing blow to the ego. Now, I knew I didn't have a good voice. I sometimes have trouble finding the notes. (I'm actually quite good at one note. The trouble comes in when I try to change to another. I know the right note is somewhere, and I try to find it. Is it here? No? Here? No? Sometimes I find it. Sometimes I don't. Hey, Josh didn't care!)
The problem is not that I can't sing -- because, I suppose I am in good company there. Lots of us can't sing. The problem is that I WANT to sing. I want to present a concert every night.
About 23 years ago, I stood on a square in Savannah, Ga., shoulder to shoulder with a mob of people. The sun set; the quaint historical streetlights came on. Kate Smith, in sequined gown -- busty, full-throated (yes, the "God Bless America" singing diva) stood on a stage in the midst of the people and belted out her signature song. She finished and the ensuing pandemonium was breathtaking. They loved her! They applauded and yelled and stamped. I'm talking wild applause -- from people who hadn't even been born when ol' Kate began her career.
"Man!" I thought. "What I wouldn't give to be the one who just finished singing!"
Lessons: I even went on to take voice lessons from a friend. I got in about four lessons, then my friend had something else come up. One would suppose the lessons didn't take, since that was BEFORE I had Hannah.
And yet, dreams die hard. (Or, you might say, some people can't take a hint.) Recently, I borrowed a videotape from the library. "Anyone Can Sing -- Even You," or something like that. It featured a man and woman who sang Broadway show tunes. I got the tape for my kids who were both in chorus, but they couldn't bring themselves to sing, "It's delightful, it's delicious, it's de-".
"Stupid."
"No, I think it's de-helping me."
Now, when I sing in the car, I cup my hand over my left ear and push down on my diaphragm.
"Mom, cut it out."
"What?"
"I want to hear the song."
"I'm singing the song."
"You were? ... Well, stop it."
My mom used to grumble that my Aunt Lou whistled along in a warbly Bing Crosby whistle every time a good song came on the radio.
Well, I don't want to be accused of ruining all the good songs, but I WOULD like to be able to give my concerts again. Maybe ... No. Well ... Zeke? Here boy, come here. Sit. Stay ...
murphy@vindy.com