My husband's a great musician. And I admit that's partly why I fell in love with him. When I first met him he was playing the bass. What's sexier than that? When I met him the second time around he was playing guitar. And uke. And steel guitar. Sometimes even the drums. And then he bought a trumpet. And then (it only gets worse) a banjo.
Living with a musician is not as fun as seeing a musician at a gig. All that jamming on licks and riffs on his axe (impressed with the musician lingo yet?) It's the same notes over and over and over and over while he's learning a song. Sometimes lots of other musicians come over. It gets pretty loud around here. And let's not forget the incessant whistling. And humming. The guy practically sings in his sleep.
So I wrote this poem:
Oh What a Noisy Daddy!
My Daddy is always whistling
or clapping or humming or singing!
Oh, no, here he comes with his banjo,
Please, daddy dear, can you play so-low?
Our house overflows with his trumpets
basses, ukeleles and drum kits!
He’s even got two ancient sitars,
and goodness knows how many guitars!
Says Dad: Understand my position,
It’s not my fault I’m a musician!
So now he's teaching my daughter how to play the uke. I may have to build myself a sound-proof room. In the meantime, they're pretty cute playing music together. Adorable, actually.
Sometimes they even let me sing along.