I love my wife. She’s wonderful. If, by way of genetic chance, my daughter were to turn out exactly like my wife, it would be wonderful. Indeed, I’ve already noticed that my daughter is displaying some of her mother’s traits. It’s… lovely.
My wife is funny, clever, gorgeous, generous. She is basically out of my league. I am a lucky, lucky, lucky man. On top of all that, she’s extremely effective at getting things done. This is also great for me. I am one of the worlds great procrastinators. Lord only knows what would become of me if I didn’t have her to regularly kick my bottom.
Although my wife is practically perfect in every way, particularly for me, she does have certain personality traits that may, to some, and I want to use exactly the right words here, seem very very slightly… challenging. She can be a tiny, tiny, tiny bit… impatient. When she has a job to do, she can be a tiny, tiny, tiny bit… forceful. And when someone is doing a job badly, she can be a tiny, tiny, tiny, tiny, tiny weeny bit… blunt.
Then there’s her singing. She can sing. Boy can she sing. At the karaoke, after she’s had a cocktail or three, she is… loud. If raw vocal power were the primary measure of great singing, then she would be up there with Maria Callas. She has pinned people to the back wall of the pub with her rendition of “Hey Big Spender”. Yes, my wife’s singing is something you are unlikely to forget.
“Mummy!” our daughter says, slightly panicked, as mummy joins in with the bedtime rendition of ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.’ Mummy continues to sing. “Mummy, no! Stop mummy!” She pleads. “Mummy! Stop mummy! Nooooo!”
I cannot for the life of me explain this, but there is something about my wife’s singing that my daughter finds simply unacceptable. “Noooooooooo Mummy! Stoooooop!” She begs, pained. Night after night she demands that her mother stops. Just, stops. I don’t know what her objection is, exactly. But the brutal bluntness with which she communicates it, I have a suspicion about where that comes from.
Oh, the irony.