I look forward to my yoga class, the two hours out of every weekly 168 when I'm not accompanied by my perpetual sidekicks, a jacked-up, three-thumbed three-year-old and her baby brother, a mellow moonpie with a breastmilk jones. Last week, I'd just settled into an approximation of the lotus position in order to concentrate on my third eye, when a horrible thing happened. 'Om', the most perfect symbol of the Divine Idea, was supplanted by the lyrics to a song I'd heard at least 5 times between breakfast and my 9:30am class:
- There was a Teddy Bear!
Named Freddy Bear!
Who lives on top of a mountain made of chocolate cake!
It doesn't matter much that the song was penned by Ralph Covert of The Bad Examples. Ralph might have been cool once, but now he's got kids, too. Kids who inspired him to record an album of kid's songs, an album so beloved my daughter that I have to play it over and over if I am to get any peace. Of course, when the lyrics to "Freddy Bear The Teddy Bear" are stuck in your head when you're meditating, peace doesn't have a chance.
I'm delighted that young Inky loves music. When she was little, we used to dance around to Screamin' Jay Hawkins, The Ramones, Liz Phair, and all of my favorite artists! She seemed equally inclined toward Chopin and The Hackberry Ramblers. Inky seemed much hipper than I am. She was shaking her bootie at Lilith Fair when she was barely two years old. I didn't attend my first concert 'til I was 13 when John Denver rocked Indianapolis. You want to tempt the devil? Brag about your child's musical taste while she's still in diapers.
As soon as Inky figured out how to scramble up the back of the couch to grab the CDs on the shelf hung supposedly beyond her reach, her true taste in music asserted itself. Her early favorites were promising. She alternated The Simpsons's Songs in the Key of Springfield with Go Simpsonic With The Simpsons. I had no problem with that, until it became clear that she would tolerate no change in her two album playlist. Getting some variety in there was about as tricky as trying to fool her brother into eating peas. I figured that some wholesome folk tunes wouldn't drive me too crazy. I should have known better. As a child, I was capable of singing all three thousand verses to "Froggy Went a-Courtin" from sun-up to sun-down with nary a thought for the grown-ups' mental hygiene.
I don't know which is harder to endure: "The Wheels on the Bus Go Round and Round" on endless replay or the torrent of abuse Inky is certain to unleash when I tell her it's Mommy's turn to pick out a CD.
Forget flowers and chocolate. For Mothers Day, I'm going to ask her to give me Appalachian Stomp. I already have it. The little monster just won't let me listen to it.
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