Just as well as I go to choir once a week as I seem to be prohibited from opening my mouth to warble a tune at home, whilst strolling in the park, driving my car or anywhere else within earshot of my fabulous four. I feel a little crushed but kind of get it. I remember being seven or eight and absolutely mortified as my mother rehearsed her lines for the latest er, hit production by the Broadway Theatre Company. Just to be clear, that was the Fulham based amateur dramatics Broadway Theatre Company and not some cool, critics choice ensemble based in New York, New York. How I used to cringe as she belted out show stopping tunes from The Pyjama Game, Bye Bye Birdie and Guys and Dolls whilst making the tea or whizzing round the house with the carpet sweeper.
And now here I am, a generation on, kidding myself that I’m still rather hip when in fact even my three soon to be three year olds are mortified by hearing me belt out the upper alto version of one of Adele’s biggest hits or a classic from the Bee Gees.
I’m used to it with Jake. He cuts to the chase, no pussy footing around and simply tells me in no uncertain terms to SHUT UP. Miss Ella fixes me with a steely glare and SSH’s me at top volume, finger firmly on lips, other hand on hip. Theo says nothing but places his grubby little hands over my mouth whilst shaking his head and my Louis (sensitive, troubled soul that he is) looks terribly concerned and in a pleading, heartfelt kind of way says, ‘No singing, Mumma – no my not like it’.
Okay, kiddiewinks – I get the message. I’ll keep quiet. The last thing I want to do is provide you with a million memories of mortification. Little buggers.
A little tip for the four of you though. Please take note – Mummy singing equals mummy in a decent mood. Think about it. That’s all I’m saying.