Before I had a baby, I didn’t really consider myself a “connoisseur” of music. Granted, I know a lot about music history. I was raised on Bruce Springsteen, The Allman Brothers Band, and Lynyrd Skynyrd. I worked at a classic rock radio station and learned all about the importance of The Wall, Alice Cooper, and Katmandu.
I didn’t really keep up with new music—I’m certainly no hipster, going to shows in musty old clubs, bobbing my head to two guys and a laptop—but I knew the greats. I prided myself in not listening to stuff I considered ridiculous or not worth the plastic case it was packaged in.
Then, I became a mom.
And my music collection went from this:
I’ve found myself go from humming and air-guitaring Hotel California and Night Moves to Zaccheus Was a Wee Little Man and Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes.
At first, I cringed. “Ugh,” I moaned. “I’ll never be the ‘cool’ mom! Better get the Mom Jeans and embroidered sweaters.”
But then I saw Huff the Babe giggle when I danced to Father Abraham and saw her face light up when I jammed out to Where is my Hairbrush? Then I figured I’m okay with not being the ‘cool’ mom. I’ll settle for being the silly mom that sings silly songs and makes her little one laugh.