In the end you can see how you brought it on yourself. You were cocky, and it was the worst kind of cocky, too: self-righteous, with a smidge of conceit. Sure you can admit that you were wrong. But it doesn’t matter anymore. You ignored all the warnings. And now it’s too late.
In your defense, you thought you’d been spared. Many a musical storm had passed you by, completely missing your family. Your home. And this particular storm had ended sometime over the summer. But what you hadn’t realized was that tween-y music is like a tsunami for younger, elementary-age ears. It brews beneath the surface. And when it hits, it’s unusually large, and brings mass destruction to an already weakened parental resolve.
It’s really kind of sad to be being taken down by Carly Rae Jepsen months after the rise and fall of her song. Even sadder is the fact that you took the time to analyze her lyrics after they became part of your children’s thinking process. You know better than this. You don’t analyze this kind of music, you just don’t. Because the moment you hear yourself thinking, “Are you kidding me? These lyrics are so trite,” you’re OLD. And at your age it’s impossible to keep your opinion to yourself because it’s either written across the lines on your brow, or spilling out of your mouth in a sanctimonious way, causing your children to self-preserve by going into I.A.M. (Ignore Adult Mode) And then you keep talking, trying to justify yourself because really, “I beg and borrow and steal; I have foresight and it’s real” is a lyrical travesty. You say this to yourself, of course, because no one else is listening.
The worse part? Hearing yourself tell your daughters that they’re not to sing, “Call Me Maybe” in Sunday School. How Footloose is that? But you can’t let your 4YO skip into class singing, “And all the other boys try to chase me. But here’s my number. So call me, maybe.” Because bottom line? She’s knows her number and likes to tell it to people, because they always make a big stink about it. And let’s be honest here, it’s not really her number, is it? Of course not. It’s yours.
And you know what? That’s not even the worst part. The worst part is that your children sing the lyrics, on the tops of their lungs, incorrectly. Which is also your fault because it was really entertaining at first to hear them sing:
Just day was showin’
Red, ripped-up skin was showin’
Just enough wind was blowing
where’d you think you’re goin’, baby?
But now it’s like having two songs crashing against each other along the eroded shore of your brain when they sing. Your window of time to share the correct lyrics? Long passed. So instead, you find yourself singing along with them about some flesh-eaten man caught in a wind storm. Because your only other choice? To play the song again and again and again so that they’ll get the words right. And you’d rather drown than do that.
Of course you’re already drowning, you just haven’t noticed yet.
And it’s all your fault.
©2012 CEK. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
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