By Shelby Cain
There seems to be certain universal similarities among children. They like candy. They like animals. They like music. My girls like music a lot. In fact, they’re getting pretty fanatical about it. Very few days go by without us busting out into a full-blown dance party. It really helps with those 4:30 p.m. doldrums. Their moves are starting to gain some serious momentum too. They can switch from ballerina to back-up dancer for Justin Timberlake on a dime. Sometimes I stop in my tracks and think, where did you learn that? I have no idea. I’m hoping it’s not from me.
Lately, the phrase “turn it up, Mom!” has become very popular in our car. But they don’t want just anything turned up anymore. It looks like our days of Raffi and Baby Beluga may be coming to an end. Suddenly, they want pop music. Taylor Swift. Katy Perry. Pink. Oh God. I’m accepting some guilt for exposing them to this type of music in the first place. If a good beat comes on the radio, I can’t help but bop along. They also have older cousins who have contributed. But, however this happened, one thing is for sure: bumping up and down in our little red wagon just isn’t cool anymore. They want to rock. Which is fine. I mean, it was bound to happen eventually. But listening to your four-year-old sing “we, are never, ever, ever, getting back together!” at the top of her lungs is a little disturbing. Suddenly I’m skimming all my playlists and removing anything that may corrupt their innocent minds. It doesn’t leave me with much.
I remember going through this same phase when I was a kid. I loved the radio. I loved to sing. But the lyrics seemed very confusing. I learned to adapt. One of my favorites was “Maneater” by Hall and Oates. In my six-year-old brain it went, “Watch out boys she’ll chew you up, oh-oh here she comes, she’s a mad beetle!” It made perfect sense to me. It was years later that I actually learned what the real lyrics were. To be honest, I was quite disappointed. In my mind that giant, shiny black beetle was coming right for me. It was thrilling!
Last week Four was singing “I’m getting junk on a plane.” Halfway through the song she stopped to ask me if they actually gave you junk when you were on a plane. I said yes, honey, they absolutely do. “Why Mom? And where do you put the junk? What kind of junk is it?” Oh boy. She’ll be so disappointed when she grows up and finds out the truth. Getting mystery junk seems way more exciting than getting drunk. For now, bring on the junk!
