With much better hair and a lot more talent, I might have been a rock star. As it is, performing music has been a lifelong hobby of mine, with the results usually falling between the under-rehearsed and the unlistenable. Still, at an age when I'm no longer so quick to laugh at comb-overs and relaxed fit trousers, the 'could have beens' in life start to nag. So when the opportunity arose for me to perform publicly--the solo headlining act before a young, eager audience--I jumped at the chance.

The gig came about by way of my 3-year-old daughter's pre-school, a co-op where, once a month, each parent must oversee a project at the school. When the sheet for Parent Project Sign-Up came around at the first meeting, a notion hit me like a ton of Legos: I would play guitar for the kids. With excitement, and some terror, I began to work up a set-list of toddler classics.

Project Day arrives. I am announced by Miss Celia, and take my place before the kids, settling my bulk atop a mockingly small plastic chair. All the jitters of a desperate open mic night well up, and I fumble badly getting into “Ants Go Marching"-- is it possible that I suddenly have more than one thumb on each hand? But as I careen into “Doe A Deer,” the remarkable happens. The kids are singing along. And smiling. They're not interested in making any qualitative assessment of my chops. They're just happy to hear music.

Halfway through "This Old Man," disaster almost strikes. My own daughter wobbles up before me, puts her plump hand across the guitar strings and bellows "Daddy--Stop." She is quickly and lovingly swept up by a mom on duty, and the music rolls on. And it's not until the final choruses of "Yellow Submarine" that I get nervous again. Popping up from the floor this time is the by far the unruliest child of the bunch. He approaches now and I fear the worst. He stops before me, and I give him a pleading smile, trying not to screw up an E-minor chord. He leans in, grins, and promptly plants a big kiss on my nose. Then he dances happily at my side as the song concludes. He is a wonderful child.

In a few moments, when snack time is announced, I will become just another watchful big person at the school. Nobody will cling to my legs, ask for autographs, inquire about upcoming gigs. But in that moment when the teacher asks the kids to say "Thank you, Chuck," I get a rousing ovation. (My daughter begrudgingly bangs two dolls together.) Finally, I understand the tingly pleasure, the visceral thrill of a performer who connects with his crowd. And in whatever way all those years of unheard music have led to this morning performance, I feel fully satisfied. I can't imagine anything sweeter than the sound of tiny hands clapping.