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IT WAS BRITNEY SPEARS who forever changed the soundtrack of my life as a mother.
I remember the moment distinctly. Summer 2001. My older son, Galen, who would turn nine in a few months, had just mastered the wobbly skill of in-line skating. It was the last day of skating camp, and the kids were free skating to loud pop music in a professional, indoor roller-hockey rink. "Oops! ... I did it again / I played with your heart / Got lost in the game ... / I'm not that innocent," Britney sang. From the bleachers, I watched Galen dance tentatively on his skates, his skinny knees and elbows clad in hot-pink-and-white protective pads, as more experienced kids whizzed by in full hockey gear.
In the car on the way home, I pushed in the Raffi tape we'd been listening to that morning.
"Mom, I don't want to listen to Raffi anymore," Galen protested. "What was that song at the skating camp? I liked that." He hummed a few bars of Britney's hit.
Quickly I switched on the radio. "Maybe we'll hear it again--or one like it," I said, flipping to a station I knew played pop music. I should have been feeling proud of my son's mastery of balance and gravity, and thankful that he'd sustained relatively few bruises while learning to skate. Instead, I was silently shouting "Hallelujah," thrilled that the dictatorship of kids' music had finally toppled.
Up to that point, the soundtrack of my life as a mother had mainly consisted of children's music. I played only the good stuff, rollicking sing-alongs recorded by real musicians who could carry a tune and write songs that I didn't mind listening to over and over again--musicians such as Raffi. What mother could resist an ebullient Canadian James-Taylor-for-kids who sings, "All I really need is a song in my heart / Food in my belly and love in my family"?
But too much of a good thing is, well, too much. The lyrics and tune of Raffi's "Baby Beluga" had woven their way so deeply into my brain that they now accompanied all of my daily activities, like a jukebox stuck on one track. "Baby Beluga in the deep blue sea / swim so wild and you swim so free" played in my head as I unloaded the dishwasher, pushed the grocery cart, wiped down the toilet. It snuck into my precious child-free moments, playing on an endless loop during a restaurant dinner or mattress romp with my husband. It even managed to drown out a few movie soundtracks as I sat in darkened theaters on moms' nights out. By that point I was ready to try anything--even Britney Spears.
Over the next year or so, Galen and I explored the world of pop music aimed at preadolescents. Britney Spears led quickly to the Backstreet Boys and 'NSync. Though overplayed, overmarketed, and overproduced, they were--thankfully--not Raffi. When Galen joined a roller-hockey team at the rink with the rock-concert PA system, we added Queen to our list, driving home from games singing "We Are the Champions" at the top of our lungs. Before school, Galen and his little brother crawled into bed with me and, snuggling under the flannel comforter and waiting for the house to warm up, we listened to classic rock on the radio.
So were born Music Education Mornings, during which I told the kids everything I knew (it turned out to be surprisingly little) about the songs and bands we heard. Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young's "Teach Your Children," Boston's "More Than a Feeling," the Allman Brothers Band's "Jessica," the Rolling Stones' "Beast of Burden." Each song delivered a perfectly preserved time capsule of my own pre-children, unfettered youth: granola pancakes in the kitchen of a childhood friend's hippie mom; pimply, rank-sneakered teenage boys hunched over cafeteria tables; pungent summer-grass, California-coast road trips during college breaks.
By the beginning of fifth grade, Galen's taste in music was changing as rapidly as his shoe size. He investigated suggestions from teen sitters and older friends and asked for iTunes cards for birthday and Christmas presents. Something else was changing, too. He stopped letting me kiss or even hug him. He no longer crawled into our big bed in the morning. He stopped talking to me about friends and school and retreated more and more into himself and his room. Then, at the end of fifth grade, Galen traveled to California on a father-son bonding trip, jumped off a high cliff into a deep river, and plunged--feet first--into adolescence.
When he walked through my door again, 11 3/4 years old and 5 feet 2 inches tall, he did so as a stranger: blonder, his limbs lanky and browned by the sun, every iota of his little-boyishness washed permanently downstream. Over the next several weeks I grappled with the reality that I didn't know this boy who slept in my house anymore, that adolescence had opened a crevasse at my feet and he was on the other side. And though I knew I needed to respect his privacy and honor his need to pull away, I grieved the loss of my little boy and companion.
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