Let It Be

     It was late on a Sunday in the coldest January on record, and we were driving home from St. Louis where our 16-year-old son Jesse had played in a volleyball tournament.  We had his teammate D in the car with us, and it was my turn to drive.  I cranked up the radio to stay awake.
     The driver gets to pick the tunes, so I clicked on my favorite Lite Rock choice.  Most of the songs were from the 70's and 80's, so I knew most of the words.  It wasn't long before I was absentmindedly singing.
     "Mom," Jesse said, "it's bad enough that we have to listen to this music, but do you have to sing along?"
     "Sorry," I said, and tried to refrain.
     I was not insulted.  I was not being reprimanded for my lack of talent.  My son is a singer, and he and I sing in the car all the time, often finding nice harmonies.  But not in front of his friends.  I had dipped my toe into the vast category of things I do that my son finds wildly humiliating.
     I started thinking about how universal this is, and I had a funny thought.
     "When Paul McCartney was driving his kids around, and Let it Be came on the radio and he started to sing along, do you think his kids were embarrassed?" I asked.
     My husband laughed.
     My son rolled his eyes and said, "Are you seriously comparing yourself to Paul McCartney?"
      D asked, "Who is Paul McCartney?"