I love you, but......
Small Person is a big music fan.
She likes pretty much everything - rock, punk, a bit of dance, the Paris to Berlin song (come on - she's six!), and it's all fine by me. Her father views her burgeoning musical tastes as a competition between us, which is pretty much to be expected from a man so petty that, during our marriage, any perceived slight would be recorded by him and nurtured until he had a chance to throw it back at me, often with a triumphant "and that's how it felt when you [insert imaginary grievance from three weeks/eight months/four years ago here]", and attempts to influence her into genres he knows will annoy me. But I know his game, and I refuse to be drawn into it. Besides which, he has a full beard and the entire Jean Michel Jarre back catalogue, so what does he know?
But anyway. That wasn't what I wanted to say at all.
Small Person's love of music is externalised in one of two ways. One being slightly spastic dancing (much as I hate to bring the Ex into this again, he only has one dance (a sort of demented twist which is performed regardless of the music actually playing), and it seems that Small Person may have inherited this talent), and the other being her newly-incessant singing-along habit.
It wouldn't be so bad if she sang along to songs she actually knows. But complete ignorance of the subject matter is no bar to Small Person's enthusiasm. Oh no. All car journeys are now subject to a soundtrack very much akin to the sort of music that plays in the background in shops that sell dreamcatchers and books about astral projection for fun and profit. And it's driving me MENTAL. About five times a day, the following conversation plays out:
Small Person: lalalala...hmmm..hmmm-mm-mmmm.....nee-ee-ee-lalala...
me: darling, have you ever actually heard this song before?
SP: ooh-ooh-ohh...lalala....rudebox.....ee-ee-ee....um, no.
me: do you know any of the words to this song at all? Even a bit?
SP: woooooooooooooooo......ooooo....mmmmmmm........not really Mummy, no.
me: then would you please stop trying to sing along? Please? Only it's making Mummy a bit, well, bitey.
SP (crushed): okay Mummy. Sorry.
I spend the next five minutes feeling guilty for repressing her natural desire to express herself, and imagine scenes twenty years in our future where she angrily denies me the opportunity to see my grandchildren because her therapist unlocked a memory this week where I wouldn't let her sing along to the Foo Fighters. Small Person carries on reading her book, and continue our journey in silence.
Until.
Until the fucking Paris to Berlin song comes on the radio and, vindicated, Small Person shoots me a look of pure spite, announces that she knows this one, Mummy, and proceeds to shout the whole thing at me in a voice that lends itself to harmony in the same way that Les Dawson lent himself to the piano.
Karma's a bitch.
She likes pretty much everything - rock, punk, a bit of dance, the Paris to Berlin song (come on - she's six!), and it's all fine by me. Her father views her burgeoning musical tastes as a competition between us, which is pretty much to be expected from a man so petty that, during our marriage, any perceived slight would be recorded by him and nurtured until he had a chance to throw it back at me, often with a triumphant "and that's how it felt when you [insert imaginary grievance from three weeks/eight months/four years ago here]", and attempts to influence her into genres he knows will annoy me. But I know his game, and I refuse to be drawn into it. Besides which, he has a full beard and the entire Jean Michel Jarre back catalogue, so what does he know?
But anyway. That wasn't what I wanted to say at all.
Small Person's love of music is externalised in one of two ways. One being slightly spastic dancing (much as I hate to bring the Ex into this again, he only has one dance (a sort of demented twist which is performed regardless of the music actually playing), and it seems that Small Person may have inherited this talent), and the other being her newly-incessant singing-along habit.
It wouldn't be so bad if she sang along to songs she actually knows. But complete ignorance of the subject matter is no bar to Small Person's enthusiasm. Oh no. All car journeys are now subject to a soundtrack very much akin to the sort of music that plays in the background in shops that sell dreamcatchers and books about astral projection for fun and profit. And it's driving me MENTAL. About five times a day, the following conversation plays out:
Small Person: lalalala...hmmm..hmmm-mm-mmmm.....nee-ee-ee-lalala...
me: darling, have you ever actually heard this song before?
SP: ooh-ooh-ohh...lalala....rudebox.....ee-ee-ee....um, no.
me: do you know any of the words to this song at all? Even a bit?
SP: woooooooooooooooo......ooooo....mmmmmmm........not really Mummy, no.
me: then would you please stop trying to sing along? Please? Only it's making Mummy a bit, well, bitey.
SP (crushed): okay Mummy. Sorry.
I spend the next five minutes feeling guilty for repressing her natural desire to express herself, and imagine scenes twenty years in our future where she angrily denies me the opportunity to see my grandchildren because her therapist unlocked a memory this week where I wouldn't let her sing along to the Foo Fighters. Small Person carries on reading her book, and continue our journey in silence.
Until.
Until the fucking Paris to Berlin song comes on the radio and, vindicated, Small Person shoots me a look of pure spite, announces that she knows this one, Mummy, and proceeds to shout the whole thing at me in a voice that lends itself to harmony in the same way that Les Dawson lent himself to the piano.
Karma's a bitch.
posted by surly girl at 7:54 pm
14 Comments:
Aah, so small person was subjected to a bit of Robbie then?
Perhaps you should change her bedtime reading book to a Robbie lyrics book, then she could actually sing a long with you!
Hoisted on your own petard. She was following your instructions.
Miss Peanut does that too, but I'm usually singing so loudly, I can't hear too much of it. I figure she comes by in honestly.
We have a small person in our household who seems to be under the impression that life should come with a soundtrack. And she jumps in to fill the void whenever she deems necessary.
You might have to have 'pre-journey' sessions where you lock her in the cupboard-under-the-stairs and force her to listen to Now 64,283! until she knows the words to everything.
Or gaffer tape, that's the easy way out.
I like the Paris to Berlin song too.
Shhh, don't tell anyone.
SP:1 SG:0 She's a star ...
Perhaps you should be encouraging/tolerating her singing. After all, there's always room for yet another wailing, tuneless, incomprehensible female singer on the folk/hippy circuit. Maybe you could encourage her to learn the acoustic guitar?
I'm assuming she hasn't heard Arctic Monkeys then? Or just get her the Moulin Rouge! soundtrack. Then we could all sing along!
Love is a many splendoured thing - love lifts us up where we belong! All you need is love! Don't start that again...
:)
SD
Tell Small Person to take one of the yellow-brownish colour pads from her paintbox with her at all times, then she can alway 'carry ochre' ;-)
At least she's not a Morrissey fan! (Yet)
:)
the goonybird is using the same songbook that smallperson is, then.
now i know who to blame.
What's the matter with you Surly - are the drugs not working or are you just not taking enough of them?
Rudebox is truely a terrible (and I use the term loosely) song!
Still, as long as she isn't singing the Paris Hilton album consider yourself lucky!
It's all very sweet though, I sing along too even if I don't know the lyrics. The Paris to Berlin song is ace!
He has a full beard?
Paris to Berlin is ace (reaches over to play it).
Post a Comment
<< Home