Singing has always been a talent I've admired and desired.
The first time I can remember wishing I could sing was my senior year of high school. I was at the beach with my friends during spring break.
Walking on the beach one night, we found a group of people our age sitting around a bonfire.
We mixed and mingled, and, being 18-year-old boys, tried to find favor with the opposite sex.
One of the guys sitting around the bonfire brought out a guitar. He started playing and singing. He must have sounded pretty sweet because the girls we were talking to suddenly flocked to this guitar-laden Casanova.
With the ladies now distracted, I sat down and listened. The guy did sound pretty good.
"Man, I wish I could sing," I thought.
Fast forward 12 years to last night.
My wife, who carries a tune better than me, started singing "Amazing Grace" while she rocked our 18-month-old girl to sleep.
My daughter, Emerson, tends to be a bit bossy.
"Daddy, sing!" she said, pointing to me from her cuddled position.
Having no other apparent choice, daddy sang. It wasn't pretty, but my wife and I completed our duet in the dark of the nursery.
Obviously, Emerson didn't care if Daddy could sing or not. But it doesn't mean I wish I could.
But, barring divine intervention, my out-of-tune renditions to an audience of one will have to do.