When I was a kid, and we took road trips as a family, we always listened to music together.  Some of our favorites being The Beatles, The Doors, and Prince.  I am not quite sure why as a 6 year old I knew all the words to “Darling Nikki,” a quaint love song which lyrics included “I knew a girl named Nikki, I guess you could say  she was a sex fiend.  I met her in a hotel lobby masturbating with a magazine. She said, ‘How’d you like to waste some time?’ And I could not resist when I saw little Nikki grind” – but I did.

Like most people on planet earth, it was my instinct to sing a long to the music we were listening to.  Seems like a reasonable impulse right?  Yet every time I would sing, my brother would say “No Toni.  Don’t sing.  Just don’t.”

I am not saying I have the world’s best voice, but it isn’t that awful either.  I mean there are worse sounds on planet earth you could hear, like your grandparents orgasming.  Sigh. Yet I guess for my brother’s “perfect pitch” ear, he couldn’t be assaulted by my occasionally flat harmonies.

Now perhaps I have seen Dumbo a few too many times, but I kind of assumed that kids loved it when their mothers sang to them.  I have memories of my mom signing me to sleep, and how soothing and comforting that felt.  Am I insane to think that The Munch would enjoy the sound of my voice?

Apparently.

Every time I sing around The Munch, whether to her, or quietly to my self, she immediately protests.

Munch: No Mamma.  No.  Don’t sing.

Toni: You don’t like my singing Munch?

Munch: No Mamma, I really don’t.  Not at all.

Toni: Well, you are not the boss of me.  I can sing if I want to.

Munch.  No Mamma, you really can’t.