The Songs Changed

So Did We

There was an era when Sis would only eat if I sang. Every bite required a performance. "Mommy shark doo doo. Cousin shark doo doo. Kitty shark meow meow." She couldn't talk yet, but she could absolutely manage a full-scale protest if the music stopped. Nonverbal, but somehow fluent in dictatorship.

Then came the Harry Styles chapter. I'd sing, "All this late night eatin'..." and she'd open her mouth like it was a religious experience. I have serenaded pasta. I have performed private concerts for grilled cheese. I have rewritten song lyrics in exchange for vegetables. These are skills they don't teach you in childcare books.

Then there was Bubs.

Bubs didn't talk much back then. A few random syllables and toddler-coded mumbles. But when it came to music, that kid had opinions. He called the speaker "baby." As in, he carried it around with both hands, pressed it against his cheek, and announced, "BABY!" Whether he was talking to the speaker, singing with the speaker, or worshipping the speaker remained unclear. What was clear was that music was his first language. I feel that. It’s my current love language.

For a long time, his entire communication system consisted of "Ah ah," which meant Shake It Off. Not just any Shake It Off, either. The Sing Movie version. The one with enough bass to wake the dead. The second it started; his soul left his body. He'd headbang, flail, spin, bounce, and drop into dance moves that looked suspiciously illegal for someone still wearing diapers.

Then came "Tarrrr," which meant A Sky Full of Stars. Also from Sing, apparently the originals weren't dramatic enough. During the drum solo he'd start drumming on anything and everything: the couch, his belly, the wall, my legs…the cat. Any nearby surface became part of the band. Honestly, his commitment was inspiring.

These days, both kids are fully conversational. The days of translating cryptic messages like "ah ah" and "Tarrrr" are mostly behind us. Now they can tell me exactly what song they want, exactly why they want it, and exactly how offended they are if I play the wrong version. Then they sing. Full-volume, zero-shame, windows-down singing. Correct lyrics. Incorrect lyrics. Entirely invented lyrics… The confidence remains the same regardless.

And lately, the soundtrack of our lives has been Bilmuri. (You’re welcome)

Recently, Sis told me I reminded her of Gabi Rose, and my heart nearly exploded. I've never really thought of myself as the cool aunt. Most days I still feel like I'm figuring things out as I go. But seeing yourself through innocent-colored glasses does something strange. You step back and take a second look. You start noticing what they see. They don't see the self-doubt or the endless second-guessing. They see the aunt who always shows up, the aunt who dances in the kitchen, the aunt who shakes her butt without embarrassment and plays air saxophone with her whole heart. They see the aunt who turns ordinary afternoons into tiny celebrations.

Maybe they're onto something.

The other day, Sis and I were in the bathroom choreographing a tap number to Bilmuri while Bubs performed from the shower. Somewhere along the way, this became a normal Tuesday. She was working out choreography with complete seriousness while he was putting on a full concert from behind the “waterfall”. Not just the lyrics, either. Every word. Every beat drop. Every grunt. Every weird little sound tucked into the song. If the track went "UH," he went "UH." If the guitar squealed, he squealed.

By the time the song ended, Sis had added three new moves to the routine, Bubs had performed every sound the song had to offer, and we'd somehow spent twenty minutes pretending we were a band instead of getting ready for nap. Somewhere, their parents are probably wondering why their children are yelling "Kinda Hard" and CAWing like eagles in perfect unison. I don't have an explanation for them. I just know we have happy babies, and I'm calling that a win.

There is something oddly intimate about sharing love for a song. Hearing my favorite people belt it at the top of their lungs… feels a little like magic.