Mom is finally a rock star

April 14, 2011|Amy Dulebohn

OK, I confess, I always wanted to be a rock star.

But the chances of that happening are nil. Never mind that I'm way too old and definitely don't have the look to break into show business. I also have no musical ability. None. Nada. And I'm not exaggerating. But it's not from lack of trying — or practice.

When I was younger, my sister and late brother-in-law used to liken me to "Nick the Lounge Singer," a character played by Bill Murray in the early days of "Saturday Night Live."

I loved to sing medleys of songs, no matter the genre or the tempo. Nor did it matter that I couldn't sing a lick. My poor brother-in-law rued the day he bought a karaoke machine. That's all I'm going to say about that.

After enough ridicule from that pair, other family members and college friends, I finally stopped singing altogether. Well, I still sang in the car and maybe a few other places when I was absolutely sure I wouldn't be heard. But that was it.

But like many other things in my life, that changed when I became a parent. Countless parenting resources say that singing to your child is a great way to bond and foster interaction. And, the experts insist, it doesn't matter if you can sing well or not.

So I tried it. And my daughter seemed to like it.

Or, at least she didn't cry.

As she became more responsive, she would often giggle and coo at me while I sang to her. At times, she even seems to be singing along. It's great fun for both of us. But nothing would prepare me for the response she offered on a recent Saturday morning.

I was singing a little ditty from the old "Hee Haw" variety show. Again, I like to cross genres in my singing. I chose this number because not only is it a fun song, but it incorporates one of her favorite actions, blowing raspberries.

As I stumbled through the first few lines, she looked at me, engaged, smiling, and as I continued, her grin gave way to giggling. I concluded with blowing raspberries and with the last line, she burst into laughter — and applause.  

What a rush. Finally, I thought, I have arrived. Katy Perry, Lady Gaga, Britney Spears, they all have nothing on me. Who needs to sell zillions of records, win Grammys and be hounded by paparazzi? My 1-year-old had rewarded my effort at vocal entertainment with applause. Or maybe she was clapping for the raspberries. Or both. Or neither. Who cares?  

In any event, at this moment in time, I am a rock star. At least as far as my daughter is concerned. And that's nothing to blow raspberries about.

First-time mother Amy Dulebohn is a page designer at The Herald-Mail. Her email address is

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