It all started innocently enough. The Adventurer (now 12) was looking over my shoulder as I flipped through a then and now photo gallery on Shine about celebrities.
I don’t normally do this. At least not often. Because I’m busy.
She scrunched up her face and asked the question that ultimately led to a hurling preschooler.
“Who’s Bono?”
Gasp.
Is it possible my daughter has never heard U2? I did a quick memory search of all of my favorite music that I’ve shared with her over the years. I continued to scan (it’s like dial-up speed these days) and remember all the singers I love, that she has quickly rejected.
<scan complete>
I forgot to share U2.
The next day, as we were heading out to a friend’s house, I grabbed two CD’s for the road. Achtung Baby. The Unforgettable Fire.
It was a 20 minute ride. After five minutes, my girls, all three were screaming. This time (for once) they weren’t fighting. They were begging and pleading with me to turn off the music.
The Princess (age 4) was screaming that her stomach hurt.
“Come on, one more song,” I pleaded. “Just listen to this one. ”
“This guy sounds like a dying cat,” said the Adventurer.
I’m not going to share my response to that one. I was outraged. Completely stunned. Horrified.
“I hate it! Turn it off!” yelled the Butterfly, who prefers Radio Disney above all else.
“My stomach really hurts,” cried the Princess. She has a low tolerance for bumpy roads, snug seat belts and apparently, Irish bands.
I made them tough it out ’till the end of the song as I tried to find a spot to pull over to check on the Princess.
And then the song ended. And the Princess puked, quite carefully into a giant plastic cup that was in her cup holder. I pulled over.
They begged me not to ever play it again.
I told them if they behaved, I wouldn’t have to play it again. I laughed to myself as I removed the icky plastic cup, got out of the car and disposed of it in a near by garbage can. I realized I will never have to use the line don’t make me turn this car around again. The threat of mom’s music is now enough to stop their backseat bickering, seat kicking and hair pulling in a heartbeat.
Thank you, Bono. You’re the sweetest thing.
My girls are not embracing my music. It’s not like this rejection has left my heart, empty as a vacant lot, for any spirit to haunt. I didn’t embrace my mother’s music either. She tried to help me appreciate Janis Joplin. She did a wonderful impression. I’m not sure dying cat quite captures the pain I felt.(I love you, Mom. And I get it now.) Lord, wontcha buy her a Mercedes Benz already?
And my grandmother could not understand why my mother and I didn’t share her love of “old blue eyes.” Sinatra was the man, as far as she was concerned. “You know I met him once at the Mamaroneck Diner,” she once told me. She was a woman of many words. And not exclusively accurate words.
This is how it works. They aren’t going to appreciate the music I love. I’m already complaining about the noise they listen to. Really. It’s just noise to me.
The Princess was fine after the music stopped. We went on to our friend’s house, where the Adventurer shared about the dying cat song and how much she hates my choices in music. They were nervous about getting back in the car when it was time to head home. I promised we could enjoy the silence, which of course reminded me of Depeche Mode, which gave me an idea for tomorrow’s listening…
That’s alright, it’s alright, it’s alright. Here’s Mysterious Ways. It may make a little girl hurl, but I still love it.
