Mouse in my House

I just found out I can’t sing. No, it’s true. Here I am, flitting along in my two decade long dream of becoming a world renown singer and I suddenly discover I can’t actually sing. Don’t try to argue with me. I’ve resigned myself to it, mourning over my deflated bubble and burst hopes.

To think how many times my poor sister had to hear me belt out “Part of Your World” from the Little Mermaid sound track. Why didn’t she tell me?

For the last two years, I’ve been singing in church alongside my musician friends, thinking I was qualified to sing with them. Every week I faithfully harmonized beside my worship-pastor of a husband. I worked hard to split up the parts, to get us in sync, to fill in the melodic holes. How blissfully unaware I’ve been to the warble of sounds that comes out of my voice box.

I should have known. Every week, somebody tells me to turn up the volume, to sing louder, to get closer to the mic. Every week, people can barely hear me, barely notice the harmonies. And then I carefully blame the sound system, the monitor, the songs. But I go on, singing faithfully. Unaware of the problem.

Sigh. And then I made the mistake of recording myself.

Yes, what a fool I’ve been. My husband and I make a hobby of recording songs, just for the fun of it. We’ll pick out a song, a simple one with easy melodies and familiar words, and then lay down the tracks on our recording software. We’ve done it before, and it usually comes out fine. But I missed the signs because I was so good at blending behind my Brandon’s louder, handsome voice.

But this time, we picked out a song with two distinct parts. My voice stood alone, naked for the world to see. And what did I discover? I have the voice of a small rodent. It was soft, limp, wobbly. “You sound like a mouse,” said my darling husband. That can’t be right.  Oh yes, I carried the melody, I hit the notes, but it was a flimsy attempt at music. Of course, I wasn’t holding the mic right. And the recording equipment was picking up fuzz. I can’t sing with the light on. I’m distracted by the carpet.

So we tried it again. And again. And I stood up to use my diaphragm. And I had my Brandon sing with me. And I had him play guitar in the background. And he played with the voice controls. Nothing fixed the mousiness. If anything, it was more bold, more proud of its squeak. “Sing louder,” he said. So I did, and I really belted it. Louder than I’ve sung in a long time. And the weirdest thing happened. I lost control of my voice. It barreled through, hitting whatever targets it could but missing the important ones. The mouse scampered away, but it was replaced by a forced squawk. It was all over the place, unwieldy and imprudent. The air that flew out of my lungs couldn’t find the notes and just grabbed whatever tune it could find. It was like my voice was desperate, unsure of this new venture it was taking.

The discovery is now staring me straight in the face: sing in key and sound like a vermin, or sing loud and sound like a hooligan. Where is the balance? How am I supposed to recover from this? My dreams, my hopes, lost in the guise of a mouse. Where can I go from here?

Want to know what is worse? It was funny. I laughed at myself. My husband laughed at me too. I was finally hearing myself clearly for the first time in decades. I’ve always passed it off as something wrong with the system or the timing or the environment, but not today. I’m awake, and I’m ready to come to grips with my limitations.

What did you say? Practice? Oh yes. Practice. You’re probably right. Someday when I’m not too embarrassed, I’ll post those recordings for you. But not today. And don’t get your hopes up.

By the way, you could have told me.