Last night I told The Boss's paternal grandparents that our little girl is a fan of Johnny Cash.
Hearing her favorite artist's name, The Boss's eyes popped wide and her voice piped up. "Johnny Cash is singing Ring of Fire!" she declared.
I about swooned at her cuteness. To hear JCs name on the lips of my two year old daughter in a clearly articulated seven word sentence was music to my ears.
"And she can sing it, too," The Partner said. "You should hear her and Binky in harmony. If you could call it that. Which I don't think you can."
"It's true." I know my weaknesses, and I'm not too proud to flaunt them. I cued up the other half of my duo. "I fell in to a burning ring of fire..."
"Burning ring of fire..." The Boss sat in her high chair and chirped with soul. Sometimes in unison, sometimes in echo, we belted out the rest of the chorus. The last two lines were the strongest as The Boss's tuneless phrasing settled into mine. "Ring of fire. Ring of fire."
The grandparents clapped with more enthusiasm than they would have had for the Man in Black himself. The Boss applauded her own performance. I reveled in the moment with no concern whatsoever for the fact that neither of us could carry a tune in a bucket.
I've always admired those with the ability to really sing, those who could turn an ordinary get together into a celebration just by putting a thought to music and belting it out. But listening to my two year old daughter made me attune to the fact that it's not always about talent. Sometimes it's the right voice, however unsure, and the right song that make for an impromptu party.