Tag Archives: singing

Funny Girl

Family, Humor, Kids, Mental Health, parenthood, Random Thoughts/Happenings, , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Last week I saw Funny Girl on Broadway, which I HIGHLY recommend because despite the cringy plot (really quite bad), Lea Michele’s performance absolutely blew my mind to the extent that I’m able to earmuff the rumors that she’s a card-carrying mean girl/bully/everything I hate about people/society/the world. They’re only rumors, after all, and they’ve only been verified by every single person she’s ever worked with, so obviously filing it under fake news. *adjusts headphones of convenience*

Anyway, as I do whenever I see a Broadway musical, I’ve been obsessively playing the catchiest song over and over again in my car to a degree that is certainly diagnosable as a mental condition. (But seriously, other people do this blast-a-song-and-scream-the-lyrics-on-repeat-thing, sometimes actually acting out the words with dramatic hand and head motions, right? What’s that? Yes, but they’re 9? Kkkkk.)

This ritual of playing a Broadway song ad nauseum has pretty much been my MO since seeing Rent in middle school, and I’m always so excited when I get a new opportunity to be weirdly obsessive. It’s my (arguably sad) idea of fun.

But you know what ruins fun?

Children.

Especially Even the ones you birth!

It is rare that I am in the car without one of my half-pint humans nowadays, so my opportunity to blast a song and weird-out is limited. Sophie’s fun-ruining is more manageable. She’s only 1, so her idea of crashing the party is simply to scream at the top of her lungs until you start desperately searching the car for an eject button (to eject/kill MYSELF, guys, not the baby! Jesus.)

After 13 months of her car screaming I have developed some semi-useful coping mechanisms such as day dreaming that I am anywhere but here on Earth, tearless crying (also known as soul-crying, which is far less satisfying than classic, outward sob-crying, but gotta keep those eyeballs unobstructed because hello I’m driving a small child and SAFETY), and praying to a rotation of gods (I’ve now sampled all religions, and it turns out there is no god who will rapid-fire respond to an SOS emoji text).

But Sophie isn’t actually the problem, because her age/obliviousness and the above coping mechanisms allow me to at least semi-pretend it’s not happening. You think a 4-year-old is going to let you get away with that shit, though?

The fuck she’s not.

Me: (plays “Don’t Rain on my parade”)

Nora: “Mom, what’s this song about?”

Me: “A girl chasing after a man her dream!”

Nora: “Was this song in the start of the show or the middle or the end?”

Me: “Middle.”

Nora: “But why?”

Me: “Because that’s how the person who wrote the show wrote it.”

Nora: “Did the girl who’s singing write the show?”

Me: “No.”

Nora: “Then who did?”

Me: “I…don’t actually know. But I can look it up later.”

Nora: “But why don’t you know?”

Me: “Because I don’t know everything.”

Nora: “Does Dad know everything?”

Me (laughs): “Definitely not.”

Nora: “Why’d you say ‘definitely not?’ Why’d you say it like that?”

Me: “I was just being funny.”

Nora: “But how is that funny?”

Me: “I can’t really explain how it’s funny.”

Nora: “Maybe it’s not funny then.”

Me: “MAYBE YOU’RE NOT FUNNY THEN!!!!”

So anyway now we listen to Raffi.

Listen It’s a Catchy Tune Ok

Kids, parenthood, , , , , , , , , , , ,

Ran into our right-across-the-hall neighbor, who works from home and has two kids…

Neighbor: “Sounds like you guys are really in the throes of Elmo-obsession!”
Me: “Oh god, yes! Can you hear the TV in the morning? I’m so sorry!”
Neighbor: “No, no. Never heard the TV. But every single day, like clockwork, between noon and 1, I hear you singing ‘Elmo’s Song’ over and over. I totally remember that phase when my kids made me sing that crap on repeat.”
Me: “Oh my god I know. It’s the WORST.”

Our nanny comes every day at noon and takes Nora to the playroom.

Noon to 1 is my alone time in the apartment.

face-with-hand-over-mouth.png

She’ll Be Nothing If Not Resourceful

Family, parenthood, pregnancy, , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Our kid will be born knowing exactly how to get her home cleaned (call 1-800-Steamer), book a car to the airport (666-6666) and who to call should she find herself needing to file a lawsuit (Cellino and Barnes, injury attorneys), as these are Eric’s go-to jingles when I tell him to sing to the baby.

And I gotta say, at first I rolled my eyes (particularly when he followed one of these “lullabies” with a lecture-warning about the gender pay gap), but then I was like you know what? That information is WAY more practical than knowing the detailed comings and goings of Mary’s lamb (and if I can avoid having to eventually break the news that nobody ACTUALLY has a lamb, and that if they do, they’re probably going to eat it with some mint jelly at some point– yes, even Mary– then great).

And why does baby need intricate knowledge of Miss Muffet’s breakfast ingredients? Particularly since they consist of curds and whey, two words our kid will use approximately zero times in her life. If Miss Muff wants to go ahead and slip some bacon and tots into that bowl and pair it with a bloody, then I’ll consider getting on board with a lesson on how to brunch like a boss. But until then, her sad little Amish meal is a waste of everyone’s time.

And don’t get me started on the old woman who lives in a shoe. It’s called homelessness and I’m not about to suggest to baby that there’s anything whimsical about not having her own apartment.

So this led me to rethink my daily singing of “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” to my belly. Like, does she really need a song to inform her that stars twinkle? No. She’ll look up one night and get the point (and if not, at some point while in the Outer Banks, Uncle Zack will explain it to her in a weed-induced, hours-long oral disseration that she will understand approximately 2% of).  So I’m keeping the melody but replacing the lyrics with directions on how to avoid subway rats, and a reminder to clean her toothpaste spit from the sink before leaving the bathroom, because no one wants to see that shit. I also threw in a stanza about how to get money from her maternal grandparents without actually asking for it, but making it seem like it was their idea to offer. The song ends with specific instructions for Facebook and Venmo privacy settings, because that shit gets confusing and BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING, BABY GIRL.

Bottom line, songs are great but let’s not waste baby’s time. If I had spent less hours getting intimately acquainted with every single fucking animal on Old McDonald’s farm (zebras, mom? No. Now you’re just tired and everyone is getting dumber) and more time learning how to embellish a résumé when the only “job expereince” you’ve had is camp counselor and SDT Pledge Master, I probably would have had less of a nervous breakdown at age 26.

From here on out, no more impractical ditties. If baby wants a soothing song, she’s going to learn a useful life skill in the process.

So twinkle, twinkle, baby girl. Tie your hair back before you hurl.

breastfeeding