Chris Cohlmeyer , three decades ago when I was a stay-at-home mom with a beard taking care of a little itty bitty girl, there were two songs that I used to sing to my little perfect angel.

One was a song I learned from the wife of the pipe carrier I was studying under. She said it was the song Lakota mothers sang to their babies to get them to take a nap. I tried it and it worked!

In my noggin I still remember that song even though it was in the Lakota “Sioux” language. I remember all the Lakota words but I can no longer remember what they mean. All I remember is that when I started singing that song to my beloved young teacher she very quickly got sleepy.

Her naps were teeny, tiny windows through which I could write — or do other adult stuff.

The other song I sang to my little lord and master was the hit Beatles’ song, Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da. I used to know that song word-for-word but now I can’t seem to remember past the second verse.

This song did not usher my charge quickly into Dreamland because it always made us giggle. I’m sorry but how can you listen to that song and not be drawn to the very brink of giggling with joy? Seriously, it’s one of the happiest songs I know — or knew.

But that was our Beatles’ song; the one we shared intimately (we both sang). I felt that I had done my duty by introducing my little angel to music that I listened to a couple of decades prior. I felt I was paying it forward. Singing to her was a part of parenting I had no idea was part of it. Hell, I’m a terrible singer!

But I sang to my little girl and she giggled.

Does anything else matter?