Yesterday, my 2-year-old told me that she wanted to sing “Pumped Up Kicks” at Overbrook – Overbrook being the preschool she will soon attend four hours a week.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “but I don’t think they do ‘Pumped up Kicks’ in preschool.”
“Awwwww,” said Jane.
“Why not?” her 5-year-old brother asked.
The last time my husband synched up his iPhone, it said he’d played “Pumped up Kicks” 427 times. Jane darts around our house singing, “Better run, baby run/Out run my gun.” Apparently, crooning about a “six-shooter” seems appropriate to my children.
I blame a “camp disc” my husband created – a playlist heavy on country drinking songs with a smattering of pop and rap – to accompany our summer activities. Having now heard these 14 tunes hundreds of times, our 5-year-old twins, and even our 2-year-old, know most of them by heart. And while, “Kiss me ‘til you’re drunk and I’ll show you…” might be appropriate summer fare, I’m certain preschool and kindergarten teachers frown upon such content.
Just the other day, my 5-year-old daughter was singing about her “friend the communist” who holds “meetings in his RV,” while rhythmically whacking our backyard slide with a plastic bat. I’m tired of trying to explain to her why Sheryl Crow “went to bed in Memphis” and “woke up in Hollywood.” And I’m worried that her new kindergarten teacher will say that it’s great Georgia thinks her “heart’s a stereo” but that she should stop asking classmates to turn her “volume up in front of the cops.”
I’m waiting for that call from my son’s new kindergarten teacher – the call in which she objects to Griffin telling a girl on the playground that he has “some wild-ass buddies who love spending money/And I see you brought a couple of friends.”
And I had a moment of panic when he sang out at dinner the other night that he had “some feel-good pills and a red Gatorade by [his] bed, ready to go.” During these early kindergarten days, I’m praying Griffin doesn’t feel free to share, during circle, that “if it weren’t for tequila and pretty senoritas/[he’d] have no reason to stay.”
But nothing seems to be working.
I think my son still thinks that “back down a country road/The girls are always hot, and the beer is ice cold.” And with autumn in the air, I’m finding it harder to enjoy our minivan sing-alongs during which we belt out, “You’re on the feel good side of leaving/And I’m the backside of a mule.”
Summer is out, and school is in session. It’s time for all of you to clean up your act.
Otherwise, you might have to “take your mama out all night” and get her “jacked up on some cheap champagne.” It seems only fair.