Walking the flights of stairs to Gabriella’s classroom this morning she said to me, “Dad, you’re embarrassing me.”

“What?” I said, amazed that my previously always amiable nine year-old was suddenly bothered by me. “What’s embarrassing about it?”

“Please don’t sing,” she said. “It’s embarrassing.”

Granted, I was singing “Get down girl, go ‘head get down, get down girl go ‘head” but I was singing it softly. And very well. And to my self. And my self was enjoying it very much. And there was no one else in the stairwell. And I feed and clothe this little person and allow her to live in my house free of charge. And also she has both good pitch and thick hair because of me and…

…but I shushed and walked the rest of the way in mature respectful silence thinking about Ireland.

I went to Northern Ireland with Michael W. Smith a few years back. We played a show in Belfast and then took a day off in Dublin.

That day Michael and his family had lunch with Bono and some of his family (like ya do).

The way I remember Michael telling it, sometime during lunch Bono’s kid rolled her eyes at him for something dorky he said or did or sang.

She did this to Bono – arguably the greatest frontman of our time, the guy who fills arenas easily and hangs out with Nelson Mandela and the Pope and wins Grammy Awards and wrote Where The Streets Have No Name.

Bono is an embarrassment to his kids.

Bono.

There was more than a little comfort in that for Michael, whose offspring also, from time to time, rolled their eyes in his general direction while growing up.

And there’s comfort in that for me today. And also freedom. Freedom I intend to exercise liberally when I pick my kids up from school later this afternoon blaring Baby Got Back from the mini van with the windows rolled down.

I may wear a feather boa. And a cowboy hat.

I mean, if you know you can’t win…