Every stage of life has its theme song(s). A few years ago it was Thomas the Tank Engine. Those cheery little can-do rails from the Island of Sodor ran through everything. Before that it was We Sing and Skinamarink, those whacky, happy Canadians that got us through some very sleep-deprived mornings.
Now, from the shower emanates j-pop (Mom, that’s a Japanese import), if it’s daughter, or Sponge Bob, if it’s son. That Goofy Goober song is very hard to extract from the skull bone once it penetrates.
These days I’d have to peg the theme song as Hot Cross Buns, blasted out on the trombone, dominant by virtue of volume, simplicity and repetition. Tonight the dreaded simultaneous practice occurred, separated by only one wall. There is no reason why they couldn’t be separated by one or more floors. Daughter practiced singing “I Don’t Know How to Love Him,” from Jesus Christ Superstar, and son practiced Doctor Rock and Hot Cross Buns on the trombone. Neither gave in.
We gave thanks, quietly.