As I turn to my daughter, I say, “It’s just you and me, sweetheart.” She hops into the front seat, offering a faint smile.
“Hey, Mom. Can we swing by Starbucks?”
I return her smile, agreeing instantly. The grocery shopping can wait. With her approaching 13th birthday, I feel a growing urgency to cherish our moments together. So, it’s frappuccinos for us.
As she scrolls through SiriusXM, searching for Hits 1, she stumbles upon the 80s channel. Just as I catch a glimpse of the iconic drum machine intro, she swiftly changes the station.
“Wait! Go back!” I exclaim.
It’s Michael Jackson’s “Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’.” I crank the volume, and the infectious beat reverberates through the steering wheel. My body instinctively begins to move as I sing the opening line with enthusiasm and confidence. When a beloved song comes on, I can’t help but channel my inner rock star.
But It Wasn’t Always Like This
I lost my voice in the backseat of a mustard-yellow 1980 Toyota wagon. At 11 years old, I was on the brink of a teenage phase I didn’t yet understand, one that would silence my hand in class and make me self-conscious about my appearance. Clad in red terry cloth shorts, I sang along to Eddie Rabbitt’s “Love a Rainy Night” from the backseat. Just as I was about to hit the chorus, my mother interjected, “Can you please stop singing?”
Now, as a mother myself, often driving a car full of lively kids, I completely grasp the need for quiet—after all, distractions can lead to accidents. Yet, at that tender age, I misinterpreted her request as a critique of my singing ability. That moment stifled my willingness to express myself musically, and my natural shyness, compounded by the changes of puberty, convinced me it was best to keep my voice to myself.
In junior high, I was nudged into chorus due to a shortage of altos, but I stood at the back, merely lip-synching. During high school parties, when the inevitable sing-along to “Roxanne” erupted, I would either stuff my mouth with chips or sit quietly off to the side. Even in college, when I might have sung along, I likely did so under the influence of alcohol, where it was easier to join in without judgment. Despite the advice from parenting books about the benefits of singing to unborn children, I simply couldn’t bring myself to do it.
A Journey of Rediscovery
While I wish I could pinpoint a singular moment that led to my vocal revival, the truth is that it was a series of experiences. Some were deeply desired, like when my then-fiance and I harmonized on “Killer Queen,” cementing our bond. Others came unexpectedly, such as realizing that my voice could calm my restless firstborn and ease my own anxious heart. Some moments were hard-earned, including the time I gathered the courage to perform on stage with a fantastic group of mothers from my daughters’ school last year.
And now, in the car, I find myself in another transformative moment. My heart races with excitement as I sway my elbows and bob my head—a move my friends and I like to call The Car Dance. I’m just about to launch into “Too high to get over” when I sneak a glance at my daughter. She’s watching me with a mix of amusement and embarrassment, a classic teenage expression that doesn’t fool me.
“C’mon! I know you know the words!” I encourage her, singing with gusto. She rolls her eyes in response.
Just when I think she might not join in, a grin spreads across her face, and she dives into the next verse with me, her arms flailing and her golden hair flying. When she sings, there’s a light in her that radiates, and I hope she never loses that spark.
Related Topics
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Conclusion
In summary, my journey from losing my voice to reclaiming it has been filled with moments of joy, uncertainty, and growth. I embrace every opportunity to sing now, especially with my daughter, and I hope she always finds her voice, too.