I have a secret. If you saw me walking around Target, little ones in tow, you would probably think I was the last person in the world who harbor any mysteries. You see, I look a lot like your typical SAHM, the kind sometimes discussed with derision on some blogs. You know the type, t-shirt, Capri’s, hilights, surrounded by small children who are usually having a melt-down about something. You probably think after looking at me for a few seconds you know how my brain works, my hopes, and dreams, but I might surprise you a little bit.
My husband is suspicious about my secret, but he doesn’t know for sure, can’t quite put his finger on it. My children know though. Oh yes, I have indulged in my secret vice right in front of their sweet little faces. You see, I love to Rock! LOUD! And my favorite place to partake is driving down the road, car load of kids while we all sing a long.
It’s something I’ve been fighting for years, ever since I went to the firesides as a youth warning us of the dangers and hidden messages buried with in the songs. Oh, I was a believer; in my house we learned from a young age that KISS was an acronym for Knights In Satan’s Service! I remember passing by the water tower at the center of town where some poor soul had spray painted the KISS insignia on it in giant letters. I felt genuine sorrow for that lost person.
I wasn’t one to be drawn in with the heavy, obvious hard rockers, not at first. It was a subtler tool that brought me to the place I am today, fluent in Satan’s Tongue. In my town we called them “New Wave” bands. How was an early adolescent girl ever to resist the likes of Simon Lebon or John Taylor. I was helpless and it was a free-for-all from there!
I still try to fight it, when I had children I knew it would be unwise to start them down the rock n roll path in their infancy. Really, I did try; I bought some Barney tapes and Disney princess CDs that we listened to until I was nearly suicidal. I couldn’t take it for long, the pull of the dark-side was too strong and somehow we “lost” most of the children’s music tapes we owned.
I should have realized that it was too late for my children by then anyway. I should have known when the baby in my womb danced around every time an Offspring song came on, or when the first song my eldest daughter ever sang was Bob Marley’s “Get up, Stand Up”.
I haven’t always wanted to take responsibility for my actions. I had always planned that if my second born daughter came home with a beau named “Catman”, who has leopard spots tattooed all over his body and prosthetic whiskers, and announces that she’s the new front woman for an all-girl punk band I would lay the blame wholly at my husband’s feet. I would fully extend my right index finger, level it at my husband and say, “You were the one in the rock band for all of those years!”
I can’t do that to my husband though, if there is blame to be handed out I must stand up and take my share. I occasionally feel guilty about it but I worry that trying to switch my family from rock n roll to LDS pop might be more detrimental than just surfing those sonic waves straight to hell… together forever.