We Just Disagree

Music feeds my soul. Songs play in my head around almost every memory, and I turn many conversations into brief impromptu musicals. Music is woven into the fabric of me, and I want my children to share this love (which has taken its toll on me, but I digress). 

When I was pregnant with Beck I had everyone in our immediate families suggest a song that was important to them, and I made a playlist of all of our contributions and played it and sang it for my pregnant belly. We jammed to Weezer’s “Say it Ain’t So”, and Brandi Carlile’s “The Story”, and Jackson Browne and the Indigo Girls and Kenny Rogers and Dave Mason. And the irony about the last one is Dave Mason sings “We Just Disagree”, and as I shared all of this music with Beck, I never guessed we’d disagree about something pretty big—whether I’m allowed to sing. 

It happened for the first time about a week ago. We were singing the alphabet song, and I was asked to shut my trap but with a moderate level of toddler politeness. I totally got it though; he was trying to show what he knew. He didn’t need Mom filling in the blanks. A few days later, we were listening to “True Colors” in the kitchen, and it happened again. “Momma, you don’t sing it. I sing it.” Again, I wasn’t too worried. It’s his special song from Trolls, and sometimes a guy needs to sing solo (or backup for Justin Timberlake . . . solo is in the eye of the singer). However, the next night I was making dinner and belting out a tune while he was outside on the deck, and he popped the screen door open and shouted, “I am eating the music. You don’t sing,” I took it to heart. This was Billy Joel’s “Piano Man.” Beck didn’t want anything special with it; he just wanted me to stop singing. And where the heck did this violent hostility come from? We do not eat Billy Joel! I mean it’s not like he has the greatest personality or personal reputation (and apparently according to a documentary Wes and I watched on Netflix he didn’t treat his “hired guns” all so well, but we don’t EAT BILLY JOEL. It’s not like he started the fire. He didn’t. We know that much.) 

I’m an understanding woman as a teacher, a friend, a wife, a daughter, and I really try to be an understanding mom, too. I bend and accommodate probably to a fault, but sometimes facts are facts, and the fact here is that when the piano man has us feeling all right, Momma is gonna sing with exuberant volume and emotion. Ain’t no nearly three year old who can stop my song train. Chugga chugga. Choo. Choo. 

“Beck,” I said sternly, “You can’t stop this. Momma sings when Momma sings. You’re just going to have to deal.” And Billy and I continued as if it were 9 o’clock on a Saturday. 

When Wes (the regular crowd) shuffled in from work, I relayed the story in my nightly state-of-the home address.  Wes’s reaction was perfectly Dad, “Beck, you cannot stop your mother from singing. We all know that.” And it made me feel loved and understood and supported because I know that Wes has been listening to me sing songs for nearly 17 years (almost 15 of those married), and it is annoying sometimes, I'm sure, and yet, he totally gets it. 

I have spent a great deal of time lately thinking about my actions and what my actions show my kids. I want my children to see home is where we can sing until the rooftop rises. And this isn't about Mom getting her groove back (I've lost several things in my life, but my groove was never one of them). This is about sharing joy and modeling that my joy cannot be taken from me. I hope they'll have this small example and string it together with a few others, and as they find their own joys, they'll feel supported and encouraged to share them freely in our home. And I hope I'm gracious enough to cheer them on in whatever it is that is giving them joy or at least not threaten to eat it.