For someone who loves music, I just don’t use it enough. It gives me everything I need to be a happy mom. It makes my brain happy. It gives my house a good vibe that sets a tone for things and people. It reminds me of who I am, or was, or who I thought I was or imagine I am–any and all of those things.
It shows my kids I have interests and identity outside of them without making them feel marginalized or encroaching on their time. Plus, my kids are at an age where my ridiculous dancing and dramatic singing will amuse and delight them rather than horrify them, as will be the case all too soon.
It’s because I don’t have an iPod. I have oodles of music shoved in cases in shelves that have been turned around to prevent sticky hands from spewing them all over my house and scratching them up. My home decor synergizes nicely with that sweet cardboard look of the back of Ikea CD racks. My own music has it’s back turned on me.
I’m resolving to get out the music and start humiliating myself in song and interpretive dance on a daily basis. My husband being the super rocknroll geek that he is (with a dedicated hard drive with 40,000+ songs and counting) has been doing this for years. In fact, I’ve learned that, to speak his Love Language, I must play three rounds of Guitar Hero with him every night. I like it, although I had to sanitize it a bit when the kids were watching by choosing a character who is actually wearing clothes and explaining that the rocker guys are actually saying “I love you” in sign language whist head banging, probably angering some pagan god somewhere.
Anyway, although my library is way less metal, I can vary the kids’ exposure with my ferocious opera obsession and an endless supply of new wave hits and Lillith Faire fodder circa 1990 (read: women in short hair playing acoustic guitars). Thanks to my husband’s music arsenal I can supplement this dated mix with some of the less-murderous Nick Cave, the less-morose Red House Painters, and the less-graphic PJ Harvey, although that probably limits me to five songs between the three.
I’m convinced that laying down the desired soundtrack on my life will have the desired effect on the overall tone of my daily existence. I’ll let you know how it goes. This project will be much more successful if my birthday tomorrow pans out as it should (rhymes with “Hi Maude!”)
Oops! I hear “Rock You Like a Hurricane,”–it must be time for that nightly wifely duty, that sacred moment between man and woman in the privacy of their own home when the kids have gone to bed…