“Psychiatry enables us to correct our faults by confessing our parents' shortcomings.” Laurence J. Peter
“You are supposed to be singing!” I have said this in that weird stage whisper that seems the only way I can talk when I am in a church.
“But you are not singing, so why should I?” I love that my youngest progeny is so forthright in her opinions, except, when she turns them on me. Then I have to remind myself that it is not ok to eat your own offspring.
At the front of the church are the contingency of women that make up the Choir. I can see their mouths moving, but there doesn’t seem to be any noise. It is like they are behind a wall of soundproof glass. I notice a tiny, fluffy white dog that is just outside the door… It is rolling around on the ground in obvious agony. Its paws are clamped firmly over its ears and there is a look of torture on its face.
“I can’t sing this high.” Miss Eight gives me that quick flick look that could wither steel.
I would like to be able to sing through the top of my head like the other mothers, but it is not going to happen anytime soon. The last time I tried, a whole flock of birds dropped out of the sky, stone cold dead.
So I revert to what I do best in the parenting department.
“Well it is your First Communion we are practicing for, not mine. Nobody is going to be looking at me in the church!”
She rolled her eyes a little and slid further down the pew…away from me.
Me?
I continued to open and close my mouth… but not a sound came out.
Probably for the best.
