In a generous response to my request, I had been sent three emails “remember the microphone!” We were talking about the Shure microphone I had promised to bring in for a test recording that was expected by the client the following day.

The reminder floated up from my subconscious at precisely 2:00AM—waking me with a start. Had I not last seen the microphone as a prop in a mock KaraOK performance in the hall starring my five year old? This can NOT be good.

I began a systematic  search of the entire house. By 4:00AM I enlisted the aid of the perpetrators themselves, waking each child in turn with the somewhat desperate refrain, “Where’s the microphone?” No useful recollections were forthcoming from their semi-sleep stupor.

Years from now as I clean out some long forgotten box of toys, I will find a microphone, of this I am “shure.”

___

Update: Emerson, my son is 9 now, and I have still not found that microphone.