My 3-year old niece wakes up at volume 25. She sings her way into the world, loudly, good-naturedly, out of tune, and with made-up-words.

You are my sunshine
My only sunshine
You make me nappy
When skines are gay
You never know dean
‘ow much I love u
Pease don’ take
My sunshine
a way

In that fort-da way children have (it’s so much quieter reading theories about children!) she repeats songs over and over and over. This particular ditty is stuck in my mind and destroyed forever.

In that theoretically endearing way, she is indifferent to the effects of her singing, convinced that she brings light and joy to the world by simply being.

And I. I have not yet acquired the cotton ears of those who have children.