It is a universal truth: every expectant parent, within minutes of the positive pregnancy test (and after the smelling salts have kicked in) start imagining the accomplishments their little embryo will someday achieve. As those first tentative fetal flutters progress to relentless kicking, the hopeful parents anticipate the Heiseman trophy with their progeny's name on it. When the ultrasound technician informs them that those three little lines on the screen mysteriously translates into, "It's a Girl!", the Heiseman trophy dream evaporates only to be replaced with some equally-unattainable-but-gender-specific bragging right.
In my case, I started searching for subtle hints from inside my belly that she had somehow inherited the prodigious talents of Yo Yo Ma, Mozart, and Carrie Underwood all rolled into one. In other words, I was hoping that she didn't get the Grandpa Goodman gene that has left him hopelessly tone deaf and with the inability to carry a tune in a bucket (sorry, Dad). While I was pregnant, I sang to her in the shower, car, and while shopping to encourage her musical development. Her Daddy even sang soulfully to her the Paul Robeson version of "Lullaby" in his rich baritone while she was parked in the NICU. And as a final bid for her musical development, while walking in the metropark, I had the inspired idea to put one earphone in my belly button (I retained my innie) and the other in my ear so we could share my musical selections as we enjoyed some hands-free exercise. Bet you'll never ask to share my IPod. But I digress.

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