She rocks, she rolls

My daughter thinks I rock

I've never been a singer. Ask anyone in my family, they've all be subjected to years and years of out-of-tune warbling on car trips. I'm OK with that. I enjoy singing loudly (and alone) to the radio in my car or at home, as everyone should.
But recently, my singing has attracted a fan. My one and only fan, but I couldn't ask for anything more. Granted, she's only 3.5 months old, so her musical tastes aren't the most refined. But what she lacks in size and experience, she more than makes up for in enthusiasm.
When I'm putting her to bed at night, I cradle her and sing the classics. You know, Fleetwood Mac, the Eagles, Tom Petty, the Beatles, Don McLean.
When I sing to her, she holds my gaze and smiles, all dimples popping and laughs like I'm the best thing since, well, breast milk I guess.
I will never win a Grammy, but that's OK. I've got something better -- an adoring audience of one.