Toddler sing sucked last week. It snowed and turnout was light. Real light. Like seven people light. Lil' Buddy and I should have just turned around and high-tailed it out of there upon arriving, but unfortunately the toddler singer caught my eye and beckoned me into the room, clearly relieved that somebody else had shown up.

So in we went. Lil' Buddy seemed confused by the small size of the crowd. Typically it's a mass of humanity at toddler sing, and we have to fight to get our favorite spot (up in the front and off to the side). But on this day the sea of empty blue carpet had my son perplexed.

While the toddler singer tuned her guitar, I removed Lil' Buddy's boots and jacket and settled in, hoping to make the best of it. There were two other adults there, both mothers with there their young daughters. We all sat equal distant from one another (about ten feet) and it was clear that they were feeling the same way Lil' Buddy and I were. Eye contact was greatly avoided.

Finally, the toddler singer greeted us and began her set. Immediately it became apparent that she was just as uncomfortable as the rest of us were. She cleared her throat nervously a few times and had two false starts on the "Good Morning" song. It's not my favorite song so that fact that she ruined it didn't bother me.

As I've written in the past I am by far the best parent singer at toddler sing, but I never had sung in such a small group before. The pressure was on and I feared I wasn't up to performing my best. But because I AM A MAN I joined in on the song and shared my gift with everybody. I did okay. The two other mothers didn't start swooning over me or anything, but I think I impressed them nonetheless.

When the song was over we all offered smatterings of applause. To break the ice I joked that we should snap instead of clap since we were such a tiny group. The toddler singer didn't pick up on my attempt at humor and instead took it as a serious suggestion.

"Okay then, let's all snap our fingers instead," she said, sounding a little put out.

Oh god, I thought. Now I've been labeled the bitchy parent of the group--the seven person group. Way to go me. Lil' Buddy looked at me like I was a crazy man.

It didn't get much better after that. We sang some more songs, but worried that I was coming off as some showboaty jerk, I reigned in my song stylings to the point where eventually my singing contribution was nothing but a low murmur. My confidence was shot.

Then Lil' Buddy noticed the toy kitchen. Not sure why there was toy kitchen there. I'd never seen it before, but there it was in all its toy kitcheny glory. So like a bug attracted to a lantern, Lil' Buddy had to have at that toy kitchen. I did all I could to distract him from it. I clapped his hands and tickled his legs, but it was to no avail; he had to turn the dials on the toy stove and prepare imaginary food in the toy pots.

It wouldn't have been so bad had the crowd been bigger, but with only seven people in attendance it wasn't hard noticing the two-year old boy slamming the toy spatula against the toy kitchen counter. Over and over and over again. The toddler singer did her best not to appear annoyed but I knew deep down she hated us.

Worst of all was me not knowing what to do without Lil' Buddy in my lap. I felt like a loser singing toddler songs without him with me. There's nothing more emasculating than singing "The Itsy Bitsy Spider" by myself in a large room with three women and two little girls. But I did. Because I AM A MAN. A MAN SINGING THE ITSY BITSY SPIDER AMONG WOMEN AND CHILDREN.

Mercifully, the toddler singer called it quite soon after that. We all sang "The Goodbye Song" and just after the last chord struck I put Lil' Buddy's jacket and boots on and we were out of there. Walking back to the car I wondered how much this lousy toddler sing would hurt my reputation as a top-notch toddler sing parent. All the hard work I had put in now seemed to go to pot.

Then I noticed that Lil' Buddy was still holding the toy spatula in his hand. I knew we should have returned it, but damn if I was going to walk back into that hellhole. The spoon now sits in our play room next to the stuffed monkeys as a heady reminder never ever to go to toddler sing on a snowy morning.

This post is dedicated to Debbie Allen.