Nobody in my family can sleep. Between OCD, depression, anxiety, bipolar, etc., falling – and staying – asleep requires a gargantuan effort. We differ in how we approach this problem – meds? supplements? willful denial? – but we all struggle with it in one way or another.
My oldest daughter has dealt with sleep issues off and on since she was about 8 years old. There would be nights where she would go to sleep around 9:00 only to wake up at midnight and not be able to go back to sleep at all. Cold medicine, though, can knock her on her ass. So when she has the sniffles or a cough, a little Dimetapp goes a long way. My only concern was that I never wanted her to get to the point of needing it to fall asleep, so one time, after a week-long bout with mocos, I told her it was going to be her last night with the medicine. When she asked why it mattered, I explained my desire for her not to become dependent on it. Her response? “Why? Would I have to go to rehab?” This immediately activated my Amy Winehouse synapses, so of course I began to sing, “They tried to make me go to rehab, I said – “
And then, like a chorus of angels, my two daughters, aged 9 and 4, chimed in to complete the line, “No, no, no,” complete with wagging finger motions. It might be the proudest moment of my parenting career, and I have no shame in admitting that. You see, I have been actively attempting to indoctrinate them into my own musical universe since the days of their birth. When my oldest was born, we brought a portable speaker to the hospital (this was 2006, before Bluetooth speakers were readily available) so that we could play important music for her after she was born. First up? Tupac’s “California Love.” I don’t remember what came after that, seeing as, you know, I had just delivered a fucking baby, but I know it was a special moment.
Nine years later, I repeated the process with my youngest, welcoming her into the world with a different portable speaker but the same song, as her oldest sister and I swooned over her. In this case, though, I remember the songs that came after, because I had to compromise on them. Mari (my oldest) was insistent that the baby should begin her introduction to all things Disney with the soundtrack to her favorite rides. To that end, we listened to music from Splash Mountain, Haunted Mansion, Fantasmic, and others I can no longer remember. I’m sure this was more for Mari and me than for Ely (the baby), but it was a meaningful experience nonetheless.
My middle daughter, who I had on the buy-two-get-one-free plan, is technically my step-daughter because I didn’t have to give birth to her, which technically makes her my most thoroughly enjoyable child. All jokes aside, this really isn’t far from the truth, as she is the sweetest of my little turd muffins and easily the most pleasant child I have had the privilege of raising. Don’t get me wrong, she can be infuriating as all kids can, but it is never out of any malice in her heart. She had no ill intentions when asking for “some fucking water” as a two year old, which was obvious as she repeated the question three or four times as we incredulously asked her for clarification. (I refuse to comment as to where she may have learned such a phrase; by way of comparison, my oldest learned her first F-word from my mother, a fact my mom fully owns up to.) For Leena (my middle kiddo), “indoctrination” needs only be “suggestion” as she is fully ready to run with anything enthusiastically presented to her. One day after her bath at around age 5, I caught her dancing in her towel and rapping “I got loyalty inside my DNA!” and realized I may have listened to too much Kendrick Lamar in front of her. Nah, just kidding, there’s no such thing. I was slightly more abashed when I heard her singing, to the tune of a famous R. Kelly song, “I believe I can wash my arms!” also while in the bath. Apparently this is a fertile time for musical education for my kids.
This is actually completely unsurprising, as I have actively used bath time as an opportunity for optimum musical exposure for my kids since they were infants. When Mari was a baby, we would have classic hip hop info sessions during her baths. This was largely because she was an incredibly fussy baby whose antics made me lose my mind on a daily basis and I needed SOMETHING to latch onto to keep my sanity. Tupac Tuesdays and Wu-Tang Wednesdays were weekly occurrences, and they were pleasant respites in my day as bath time was one of the few scream-free moments I could look forward to.
When Ely was born, I revived the ritual and even enlisted the help of my Facebook friends to curate a playlist for her, entitled “Ely’s Essentials,” which I listened to slavishly throughout her first year. It contained a litany of absolutely crucial cuts from artists ranging from Johnny Cash to Selena to Warren G and beyond, and I would put that bad boy on shuffle nightly as I washed her little white butt. After drying her and getting her in her PJs, I would go back to the music and sing and dance with her in the bathroom mirror, often reciting the full lyrics to Eminem’s “Lose Yourself” until she fell asleep in my arms, clearly in awe of my prowess as an MC.
Moral of the story? I love the shit out of my kids, even more than I love my music, despite the seeming impossibility of that statement. Forcing them to listen to my music is part and parcel of my love for them, and by god they will feel that love whether they like it or not. Of course, as they have gotten older, I have lost more and more control over the music I hear, just as I have lost control over the clothes that I wear (almost all now adorned with Disney characters) and what I watch on TV (yayyy, PJ Masks). I have spent more time listening to “Johnny Johnny” and “Baby Shark” than I have with Tupac or Kendrick these last six months, and while that is clearly a tragedy in any objective sense, it is one I happily accept in my role as mom to these three lovely, spoiled, absolute pains in the ass that I call my daughters. I would give my life for them, but more importantly, I would give my music.
