My daughter likes to have me keep her company while she gets dressed in the morning. This morning, some bitlet of conversation prompted me to sing the one line of "Do You Know The Way To San Jose" that I know.
Daughter: Daddy, keep singing that song.
Me: Sorry, that's the only line that I remember.
Me: You know, you're the only person who ever wants to hear me sing.
Daughter: Why don't other people want to hear you sing?
Me: Because I'm a horrible singer.
Daughter: I love hearing you sing! You're a great singer.
Me: No, no I'm not, but thanks.
Daughter: You're great at singing that "Pink Moon" song.
(When my daughter was younger, we had a nightly pre-bedtime ritual where I would fire up the Nick Drake song, "Pink Moon" (which you may recall from a lovely Volkswagon commercial a couple years ago). I'd hold her in my arms, dance slowly, and sometimes softly sing along with the music. Apparently my daughter believed that I was the original singer of that song. It was a sad day, years later, when we had to tell her the truth.)
Me: You remember that that wasn't really me singing that song, right?
Daughter: Yes, but you sang along, didn't you?
Daughter: I liked that.
I liked it too.