Gas prices are bad enough. But there’s another thing that makes our family car trips annoying.
It’s not my wife, LaVeta. She just wants to be chauffeured. My 6-year-old daughter, Eve, occupies herself with mirrors and play makeup. Sixteen-year-old Adrianne dons her iPod while texting at a mind-numbing pace.
Four-year-old Little Solomon? Between bouts of hitting his sister, he has this aggravating habit of asking us to play RUN-DMC.
I guess I should be grateful. Most RUN-DMC lyrics are pretty tame.
“I’m the king of rock / There is none higher / Sucker MC’s / Should call me sire / To burn my kingdom you must use fire / I won’t stop rockin’ ‘til I retire.”
Great song. Problem is, Little Solomon has been asking us to play it every day since 2006. Factor in the getting-on-my-nerves element, and it seems we’ve heard it, oh, about 500,000 times.
In an effort to stave off insanity, we’ve begun playing the radio instead. And since we can’t afford satellite radio, most of the songs aren’t for kids. That is, unless you want your pre-kindergartener hearing stuff like:
“Smack it up, flip it, rub it down, oh no!”
Oh no is right. Between the suggestive lyrics and the E.D. commercials, we often find ourselves playing Name That Tune.
Me: “I can name a Beyonce song in three notes.”
LaVeta: “I can name it in two!”
Me: “Name that tune!”
The last time LaVeta and I raced to change the station before the kids could hear some suggestive little tidbit, it hit me. Parenting is very much like playing a game show.
But as a parent, you don’t play just one game show. You play them all.
When Eve is performing a Mary Poppins number for the 40th time, I end up wishing I could morph into Chuck Barris from The Gong Show, and banish her from the stage.
When Little Solomon is crawling under Eve’s chair as she’s eating Cheerios, I imagine he’s a contestant on Survivor. Our carpet is the jungle, the soggy Cheerios are the worms he must eat, and LaVeta and I are the nearby production team that will make sure he lives through it all.
Sometimes game show parenting is actually fun. Like when we play Family Feud.
Me: “How many days this week has daddy eaten junk when he wasn’t supposed to?”
Eve hits her buzzer and says, “One!”
Me: “Survey says … seven!”
The possibilities are endless. Spinning the Wheel of Fortune to see who stays up late, opening the closet door and having them jump in to play Hole In The Wall. Having them answer astrophysics questions like they’re on Jeopardy.
All of that is intriguing, of course. But all I really want to do is let them be kids. I’ve started by censoring the radio. In a world where almost everything glorifies booze, drugs or sex, I wonder what I’ll have to turn off next.