Our twelve-year-old son landed his first solo, a verse from the play Oliver, at his choir concert last week (he did great, by the way!). Ever since he started rehearsing, everyone in the house has been singing, "You've Got to Pick a Pocket or Two, BOYYYZZZ. You've got to pick a pocket or two!" complete with faux English accents and "man" voices, just like big brother.
As you can imagine, we have a stunning variety in levels of musical and verbal ability around here, and an even more stunning imagination for substituting "picked" items in the song (think: "nose.").
Last night I overheard my husband tucking in our three-year-old girl. They were singing, just like brother, in their very best baritone. (Her version is happily, "You´ve got to pick a pocket of toys," which she says, "toyth.")
"I thound like a boy!" the little one said. Was she disppointed, or secretly proud of her new bold, Broadway sound?
"No, you don't," said Daddy. "You sound like my precious little girl!"
Regardless of her motive, she seemed cheered by this, and they continued singing away. A little tickling didn't hurt.
At the next break, Daddy asked, "What do I sound like?"
There was a little pause, then she blurted out: "You thound like a GIANT!"