Granted, she wasn’t singing with words—the girl’s vocabulary is limited at this point and she can’t actually talk. (Beside, I’m not sure she’ll ever speak Hawaiian.)

She was, however, belting out the word “Aaaaaah.” In tune. And sort of on rhythm.

This development opens up all sorts of possibilities. Should I pepper her with some Brahms contatas next? Perhaps the Berlioz requiem? Maybe I should bring her into the modern era, and teach her to sing some Alicia Keys. She also could become the youngest human ever to memorize the melody to Springsteen’s “Born to Run.”

However we play this whole singing thing, one thing is certain: The girl truly loves music. All of those mornings during her first month spent listening to Mozart and Martin Sexton appear to have paid off. Now, thankfully, the three of us get to reap the benefits.

We belt. We gesture with our hands. We even throw in a few step-ball-change moves here and there.

Judging by her laughter and the way L kicks her little feet back and forth while we sing, I’d say she loves every second of it.

It helps that both Powergirl and I have experience handling melodies. I’m a reformed (or, er, not so reformed, choir geek) and my wife did theater in high school and college. It also stands to note here that we’re both obsessed with the new Fox show, “Glee,” which often serves as inspiration for some of our most heart-felt routines.

(The title of this entry is a reference to the phrase Fox has come up with for self-proclaimed fans of the show).

Not that L would really notice if we sucked. Sing a tune or dance for her and she’s happy as a clam. She’s an encouraging audience because she always laughs. And she’s not discriminating with genre; in the last few days alone, we’ve performed everything from Andrew Lloyd Weber’s “Aspects of Love” to the Indigo Girls and Martin Sexton.

Perhaps the only downside to L’s newest form of entertainment is what our neighbors must think. Our neighborhood, like most in California, plops the houses pretty close together; I’m sure on days when our windows are open, the wackos next door can hear me belting high Bs (I have to sort of yell to get up there).

Thankfully, nobody has called the cops yet. Either that means the serenades aren’t as loud as I think, or I don’t actually sound half bad.

Yes, now that L has discovered grabbing stuff, she flings her arms about whenever possible. Most of the time, Powergirl and I can steer clear of these tiny weapons. Sometimes, however, a surprise left hook catches us by surprise.

Last weekend, in a hotel outside Los Angeles, the kid nearly gouged out my right eye. She seemed pretty tired at the time, and I was leaning in to give her a smooch on her little chin. Out of nowhere, the baby swung her meaty left arm across her body, opened her tiny hand (an attempt to grab my…eyelashes?) and popped me right in the eyeball.

Miraculously, I managed to sustain the hit without dropping an F-bomb. For the next hour, though, I swear I thought I was going to be blind (I survived).

Tonight, just before “Glee,” L had another target: Powergirl. She got her momma so good, it actually seemed like there was some bleeding in momma’s eye. For a second or two, Powergirl and I discussed a trip to the emergency room.

Then, gradually (and thankfully) my wife’s eyesight returned.

These two near-disasters have us contemplating our approach to parenting. Perhaps we should dress her with socks on her hands? Perhaps we should invest in sports goggles to wear around the baby when she’s particularly crazy? Perhaps we should take out a special life insurance policy against parricide?

Of course I’m being facetious here. Sadly, I suppose, the risk having your eyes gouged out is an occupational hazard of parenting an excitable infant. I just hope I’m able to see how cute she is when she’s finally old enough to know better.