Don't Worry If It's Not Good Enough

Sing a song

Last Thursday we celebrated Frances’ birthday. We bought her, among other things, a pair of roller skates. She rolled on them from 7 am until we went out for ice cream to Frosty Boy at 5 pm. She loved being on wheels, more than I expected.

A few months earlier Frances was introduced to roller skates at a roller skating party she had for a school fundraiser. I tried them out, too—I was a 48-year-old virgin to it. I got in front of Frances and tried to get a picture of her. Like the true awkward, clutz I am, I turned around quickly, stumbled, fell on my right knee, then my butt, and immediately started taking pictures like nothing happened. I sat on a chair and a few minutes later another parent came up to me, “I saw you fall on your ass.” I smiled, “Yeah, a little embarrassing.” “It’s fine. We all fall on our asses,” she told me.

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After our ice cream, we walked to a park just behind the shop.

“10 minutes,” Meghan called out. “Then we need to get home and get in bed.”

We both sat down on a park bench while the girls ran back and forth, jumping on things that spin around, and monkey bars, and everything else. I looked at her and coyly stated she was a beautiful girl with beautiful thighs. She looked at me.

“And you’re a real beauty with that tooth.” I have a snaggle tooth. I poked it out and winked at her. She laughed, “Yeah, you’re a real charmer.”

She usually didn’t take me seriously, and when she did I’d ask her, “why are you taking me so seriously?” And I loved it when she wasn’t serious with me.

When the 10 minutes were up, Frances ran up and told us how badly she needed to poop. I asked her why she hadn’t told us before we went to the park. She told me, “Because I didn’t have to then!” I’m not sure why I asked the question. I told her she would have to wait. “But I have to go so badly!” Then Mabel started yelling because she’d lost her plastic ring. Meghan picked her up and carried her to the car. “I CAN’T FIND MY RIIING!” She made sure there was a nice pause between each word. She yells at an extreme level—it drives me insane.

When we all got in the car I started it, listened to the screaming for about 5 seconds, and randomly yelled, “Let’s sing a song!” rather than shouting obscenities in their general direction. At that moment, I remembered a song from my childhood. A song that started with, “Sing a song.” So I started singing and repeating those three words to the tune of that jingle I remembered so well while being loud and irritating enough that Meghan looked at me. I had Siri search for it. The song began with a toy piano and a classic 70’s flute—it was the Sesame Street Kids. I turned up the volume.

One line in, and the girls are staring through their windows, all glassy-eyed. The simple melody put them out—either that or the long, 88° day did. Probably both. I still think these little distractions, interrupting our routine of self-inflicted troubles, help us move on as we regulate those emotions that control us. As the song tells us, “Don’t worry if it’s not good enough for anyone else to hear.” Life’s too short to get self-conscious.