Baby Bass Beats

“Ah ah or I riot.”—Bubby, probably, with bass drops and conviction

Bubs doesn’t talk much—just a few mushy syllables and toddler-coded mumbles. But when it comes to music? Man’s got a voice. A mission. A damn vibe.

He used to call the speaker “puh.”

But not anymore. We’ve evolved. Ascended.

Now? He calls it baby.

As in: grabs the speaker with both hands, presses it to his cheek like it’s the last surviving member of his emotional support group, and screams “BABY!!” like he’s about to drop the hottest album of the year and…possibly join a cult.

It’s not just music. It’s prophecy.

He marches it over to me like it’s a hostage negotiation—no words, no mercy, just the full force of a 20 something pound toddler radiating urgent sonic demand.

“Ah ah. Ah ah. AH AH.”

It’s not a tantrum. It’s a summons.

He wants his song. Not just any version of Shake It Off—THE version. The Sing version. The cinematic, bass-heavy, ass-shaking remix that hits so hard your ancestors feel it. And honestly? He’s right. Taylor could never.

The moment the track starts, his soul ejects. He leaves the chat. He becomes vibes incarnate. Head bangs like a baby who’s seen war. Legs flail like a ragdoll in a hurricane. Arms spin like he’s trying to summon a weather system. Eyes? Glazed over with pure, unfiltered serotonin.

It’s like watching a tiny demon get exorcised through the power of sick beats.

And then? We enter phase two:

"Tarrrr."

Which means Sky Full of Stars—again, from Sing, because the original apparently doesn’t hit hard enough for his celestial rage.

During the drum solo, he goes absolutely feral.

He starts smacking his belly like he’s about to summon ancient gods. The couch. The wall. My face. Anything’s a drum if you believe in yourself.

And now? We’ve reached the Dance Mode Era.

The original Bluey version is his jam. The second they scream “Dance mode!” he screams “Moe mooooe!” like a tiny EDM master being summoned through a portal made of bass and unfiltered joy.

No time for correct syllables. No time for breath.

He drops that baby booty LOW.

Then he bends forward, hands on the floor, diapered ass in the air, and starts shaking it like he just learned about twerking and said, “Bet.”

Like someone dropped him straight into toddler Jersey Shore.

Where did he learn that move?

Wink.

Fuckin.

Wink.

I live for it. These baby dance parties are sacred chaos.

Sis jumps in too—spinning and twirling, practicing her dance class moves with grace and focus like she’s auditioning for America’s Got Talent: Preschool Edition. She prefers the Dance Mode Trap Remix, and honestly? So do I. It goes way too hard for a children’s jam. Some of the most violent baby beat drops I’ve ever survived.

She’s got the poise.

He’s got the shake.

I’m just trying to keep my drink from spilling while DJing with one hand and blocking a flying baby foot with the other.

This? This is our religion.

And the gospel? Is bass.

💣 TRUTH BOMB: 💣

Toddlers don’t just listen to music—they become it. They don’t dance to impress or follow the beat. They dance because their body physically cannot not move. It's instinct. It's possession. It's joy as a reflex. And when you stop trying to direct it and just join them? That’s not just playtime… that’s alchemy.

✨Auntie’s Raw Take:

Look. I’m tired.

If I have to listen to one more fucking animated remix of Shake It Off or Sky Full of Stars, I might legally snap. I want to hurl the speaker across the room like a shot put of rage. I fantasize about the batteries dying. I dream of the Bluetooth disconnecting forever and ghosting us like a coward.

And yet…

He brings me the “baby.”

He whispers “tarrr” in that tiny voice like it’s a prayer.

He takes my hands—my actual hands—and places them on his belly so I can drum him to sleep while I hum.

And suddenly I’m like… fuck. This is what it means to be alive.

Because that look on his face?

It’s not just cute. It’s holy.

The way his eyes light up when the beat drops. The way his little body flies into motion like the music flipped a switch in his bones. That kind of joy is sacred. It’s sunlight in toddler form. It’s a full-body reminder of what it means to feel something so big it takes over.

We don’t just listen to music—we become it.

We dance like our lives depend on it.

We spin. We stomp. We shake our asses like we’re closing out a baby rave. We let our bodies take over and honestly? It’s cardio. It’s therapy. It’s fucking art.

Every time one of them hits me with a new move—a twirl, a bounce, a violent belly slap—I could collapse from cuteness overload. Watching them surrender to the beat is like witnessing pure joy before it gets tainted by self-consciousness and social rules.

It’s how everyone wants to behave when they hear a song that hits deep.

But adults? We ruin it.

We get stuck in our heads. We worry about how it looks.

I’ve always been a little less filtered.

I’m the one dancing in grocery store aisles when I think no one’s looking. I’m the one who has to pause mid-conversation in the car because a song comes on that I refuse to miss. I’m the one playing a new favorite on repeat with the windows down and the sunroof open because that’s the only acceptable way to fall in love with a song.

So yeah.

It’s not always my song of choice.

And yeah. It may annoy the absolute fuck out of me after the 300th play.

But I will always hit play again. I’ll always let them feel. Let them vibe. Let them groove. Let them explode with noise and rhythm and chaos and beauty.

Because those moments?

They’re not just fun. They’re everything.