At least that's the message I got Sunday morning from daughter Pitt.

I drew nursery duty at church and Pitt was my junior helper.

At some point during the hour, I led my class of two- and three-year-olds in a game of musical chairs.

Lacking a jam box to turn on and off, I cast about in my memory for an appropriate song to sing. The Allman Brother's Midnight Rider came to mind, but somehow I figured the shroom-promoting Brothers probably weren't the best choice.

After a brief struggle, I landed on Farmer in the Dell. The first round went fine.

But when I got ready to start Round Two, Pitt called my name.

I looked up and she was holding one of those wind-up toys that plays a song.

"What's wrong," I asked. "Don't like my singing?"

She rolled her eyes at me like only and 11-year-old can and replied simply.

"Not so much."

I looked at Andrew, Callie Jo, Toby, Mandy and Daniel.

They didn't seem to mind my singing. Or, at least they were kind enough not to say anything.

They were simply waiting patiently for Round Two to begin.

I decided to forego Pitt's technology and gave Farmer in the Dell another go.

This time, I made it through about three verses before I stopped singing and let them grab a chair.

After that, my charges' attention spans seemed to shrivel and they were off in two or three different directions.

But my singing had gotten us through five or six minutes of nursery duty. I considered it a rousing success.

The truth is, Pitt's right.

I can't carry a tune in a bucket. I'm a church lip-syncher.

Which is too bad, because I love music of so many kinds.

I'm enchanted by people who can write poetry, then set it to music and make it even prettier.