Cool Auntie Cranks Hog

Sis’s music world is a lawless mix of Bluey, Trolls, and those sneaky “educational jams” that actually go way too hard. One minute it’s Queen Poppy preaching the gospel of glitter & friendship, the next it’s some alphabet rap with a bass drop that could level a building. Sis treats it all like it’s the Grammy lineup.

But every so often, Auntie shows up with the contraband. And by contraband, I mean Bilmuri. I’ll be driving, we’ve just survived three straight runs of Get Back Up Again, and I throw on Straight Through You. Sis goes silent. Wide-eyed. Someone just handed her the cheat codes to life. She’s headbanging! Princess crown sliding down her forehead, miniature Stanley in hand, screaming like she just found her true calling.

Her other favorite? Talkin to ur Ghost. Which is hysterical because that song is a midlife crisis wrapped in reverb. Her only ghost is the snack she dropped last week. But she sings it with her whole chest, three years old going on divorced middle manager. I’m in the driver’s seat muttering, “Johnny, you emotional bastard,” while Sis treats it like her personal anthem. The living room becomes our arena. Air guitar, air drums, air saxophone. The whole air band is present. Sis is frontwoman, naturally, and I’m just trying to keep up on bass while she burns down the stage.

She told her mom “Auntie Kate is going to Bilmuri concert and SHE’S NOT TAKING ME!” This bitch was tattling on me… I wish she could come but it gets tricky. The music itself? It’s safe-adjacent. You can blast it with a kid in the car without anyone calling CPS. But the show? That’s where it turns. On stage they’re dropping f-bombs, telling dick jokes, and the pit is a contact sport. Try explaining that to a toddler who just wants to scream along: yes, you can sing the songs, but no, you can’t repeat everything the band says on stage in front of grandma.

At the last show, I saw a few kids sprinkled around. Not pit-goblins, not sparkly Troll wannabes. Just kids who clearly knew the laws of hanging out in adult spaces. One dad even crowd-surfed his 7 year old daughter out to security. She was cool. She fit in. She looked like she belonged, just smaller. And the crowd cheered for her like she’d been one of us all along.

That’s the part that’s equal parts terrifying and exhilarating. Because Sis? She’s headed straight there. One day she’ll demand pit rights, and she’ll walk in all bows and confidence, ready to scream her face off. I’ll be right behind her, not in the pit maybe, but close enough. Hoping she doesn’t fracture a tibia, but still laughing my ass off. Because if my tiny glitter goblin wants to crank hog, then guess what? Cool Auntie’s in.