“Just you and me, kiddo,” I say to my daughter, Jenna, as she climbs into the front seat, offering a half-hearted smile.
“Hey, Mom. Can we swing by Starbucks?”
I beam back and agree. The grocery store can wait. With her 13th birthday around the corner, I feel an overwhelming urgency to cherish the moments we share. Frappuccinos it is.
As she scrolls through SiriusXM, searching for Hits 1, she stumbles upon the ’80s on 8 station. I barely catch the familiar drum beats before she flicks to the next channel.
“Wait! Go back!” I exclaim.
It’s Michael Jackson’s “Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’.” I crank up the volume, the funky rhythm pulsating through the steering wheel. My whole body starts to groove as I belt out the lyrics with enthusiasm. When a beloved song plays, I can’t resist channeling my inner rock star.
But this wasn’t always the case.
I lost my voice in the backseat of a mustard yellow Toyota wagon, back in 1980. I was 11, teetering on the edge of an awkward teenage phase that was yet to hit me. As I sang along to Eddie Rabbitt’s “Love a Rainy Night,” my mom’s voice cut through, “Can you please stop singing?”
Now, as a mother driving a bunch of rowdy kids, I totally get the need for silence to avoid any mishaps. But at that moment, I internalized her request as a critique of my singing abilities. I decided to keep my musical inclinations to myself. My natural shyness, paired with the tumultuous changes of puberty, solidified this choice.
In junior high, I was roped into the chorus due to a shortage of altos, where I stood at the back and lip-synched. In high school, when “Roxanne” would play at parties, I’d either munch on chips or sit quietly away from the spotlight. Even in college, while I might’ve sung along, it was likely fueled by some liquid courage, and let’s face it, no one can truly butcher the Violent Femmes. When I was pregnant, despite the advice to serenade my baby, I still couldn’t bring myself to sing.
You might expect a singular moment of transformation when I finally reclaimed my voice, but the truth is, it was a series of moments. Some were cherished, like when my future husband and I spontaneously sang “Killer Queen,” strengthening our bond. Others were surprising, like discovering that my voice could calm my fussy newborn and soothe my anxious new-mom heart. There were also moments of bravery, like the time I mustered up the courage to perform onstage with an amazing group of moms from my kids’ school last year.
Now, here in the car, I feel my heart race with exhilaration. As I start to sing, “Too high to get over,” I glance at Jenna. She’s watching me with a mix of amusement and embarrassment, a classic teen expression that doesn’t fool me.
“C’mon! I know you know the words!” I shout-sing, encouraging her to join in.
She rolls her eyes, but just when I think she’ll leave me hanging, a huge grin breaks across her face. Suddenly, she’s singing along, her arms waving, her hair flying. There’s a spark in her when she sings that shines brightly, and I hope she never lets it dim.
In the end, it’s all about reclaiming our voices—both as individuals and in our relationships. If you’re looking for more information on navigating motherhood and rediscovering yourself, be sure to check out this insightful post on Cervical Insemination. And if you’re considering starting your own family journey, makeamom.com offers reliable at-home insemination kits. Lastly, for further guidance on pregnancy and home insemination, visit this excellent resource from ASRM.
In summary, finding my voice again has been an empowering journey, filled with laughter, love, and unexpected moments. As I sing along with my daughter, I am reminded of the joy that comes from embracing our true selves.
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