There was a large chunk of time in my life when I had country music playing in my head all day every day. I had an exceptionally rich chapter of my spiritual life in college when I often had psalms—instead of songs—stuck in my head, from so frequently praying Liturgy of the Hours. But these days, I have a less sophisticated background soundtrack. Humpty Dumpty, The Broccoli Song, and unnamed tunes from one of the electronic toys around here are most often what my brain wakes up to in the morning.
When I was a kid, there was this cassette tape of music by Joe Scruggs that my sisters and I loved listening to. The songs were so catchy and fun. I remember one of them was about trying to follow directions like put your knee on your nose, put your toe on your elbow, etc., to get yourself into a Twister-like state. We had hysterical times attempting that while buckled into the car. That tape was our favorite “playlist” for road trips.
One morning during a family vacation, my dad announced that we would not be listening to Joe Scruggs for the rest of that particular trip. Instead we would tune to the nearest classic rock station, or listen to his Tanya Tucker and Vince Gill CDs. We kids were floored. “WHY??? But Daaaaad, we LOVE Joe Scruggs!”
“Well, I woke up in the middle of the night last night, singing ‘goo goo, ga ga, goochie goochie goo,’ and that means we’ve heard too much of it already. Sorry.”
Having our music taken away was stressful enough to me that the memory of it has been etched in my mind for over 20 years. It wasn’t even a punishment to us for something we had done (except, perhaps, asking for the tape on repeat), just a rejection of our taste in music. I could never understand how he could ban it for the entire rest of the trip.
Until I became a parent myself.
As a gift a couple years ago, Miryam received a book of nursery rhymes with an accompanying CD: a recording of kids singing the songs in the book. Being highly 21st century around here, the only place we have a CD player is in the car. Justin and I both began to dread, “Can you please turn on Nursery Rhymes?” every time we got in the car. Many times we said, “No, not today. We want to listen to our music this time.”
Oh snap, I am that mean parent, just like my dad.
But I’m cool with that.
Because I can’t endure the enthusiasm of the British preschool kids who gathered in their classroom one morning to record each song in one take (well, that’s the scenario Justin and I came up with as “most plausible” based on the sound of the recording) every day. Even with days off from it, I still found myself waking up to “Here we go round the mulberry bush” (in this case pronounced “MUL-bree”).
So, sorry, Dad, for judging your parenting all those years. And sorry, sweet girl, that I don’t love the same music you do. On future road trips we’ll be tuning in to the nearest late-90s country station or listening to Shania Twain and Def Leppard (I guess those classic rock stations 20 years ago had an impression on me after all) on my SD card.
Another thing my dad always said was, “Life isn’t fair.” I’ve come to learn that he was right. Sometimes I listen to the kids’ music, or make up nineteen new verses to Old MacDonald Had a Farm; and sometimes they have to listen to my podcasts. And we’ll all survive! And maybe become a little less self-centered in the process. Or maybe they’ll hold a grudge against me for 20 years, who knows.
For now, here’s a solidarity shout out to all the moms and dads who have your kids’ music stuck in your heads today. I’m with you!
P.S. I’ve adopted the British (well, this book’s anyway) version of “If you’re happy and you know it” in my home. Instead of, “if you’re happy and you know it, then your face will surely show it”—which is what I learned as a kid—it says, “if you’re happy and you know it, and you really want to show it…,” which MAKES SO MUCH MORE SENSE as to why you then must do actions to emphasize your happiness, in my opinion. Not that kid songs have to make sense. Ring around the rosie, Rock a bye baby, etc etc. Anyway. I’m really finished now. Peace y’all.