“Just you and me, kiddo,” I say as my daughter hops into the front seat, a faint smile on her face.
“Hey, Mom! Can we swing by Starbucks?” she asks.
I nod, feeling a surge of urgency to spend time together before she turns 13 in just a few weeks. The grocery store can wait; Frappuccinos it is.
As she flips through SiriusXM, searching for the all-pop station, she stumbles upon the 80s channel. Just as I catch the opening beats of a song, she quickly switches to the next station.
“Hold on! Go back!” I exclaim.
It’s Michael Jackson’s “Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’.” I crank the volume, the infectious beat pulsating through the steering wheel as I can’t help but sing along, pouring every ounce of enthusiasm into the lyrics. When a beloved tune plays, I transform into a rock star.
But it wasn’t always like this.
I lost my voice in the backseat of a mustard-yellow Toyota wagon when I was 11—on the cusp of the awkward teenage years. I was jamming to Eddie Rabbitt’s “Love a Rainy Night” when my mom asked me to stop singing. At that moment, I thought her request stemmed from my less-than-stellar vocal talent. Subsequent shyness and the hormonal changes of puberty solidified my decision to keep quiet.
In junior high, I was forced into chorus due to a shortage of altos, but I stood at the back, lip-syncing. During high school parties, when the inevitable sing-alongs began, I’d either stuff my face with snacks or sit quietly away from the crowd. Even in college, I might have sung, but it was often under the influence, where no one cared about imperfect notes. Even pregnancy didn’t change my reluctance; parenting books touted the benefits of singing to the baby in utero, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.
I wish I could pinpoint a single moment when I found my voice again, but it was really a collection of moments. Some were deeply cherished, like when my fiancé and I harmonized to “Killer Queen,” weaving another strand into the fabric of our love. Others came unexpectedly—like discovering that my voice could soothe my restless firstborn, easing my worries as a new mom. Some celebrations of courage were hard-earned, like the time I performed on stage with a talented group of mothers from my daughters’ school last year.
This car ride is another significant moment. My heart races with the excitement as I dance in my seat—what my friends and I call The Car Dance—while navigating the road. As I dive into the chorus, I catch a glance at my daughter, who wears a typical teenage blend of amusement and embarrassment.
“C’mon! I know you know the words!” I sing, and she rolls her eyes.
Just when I think she’ll leave me hanging, she flashes a big grin and joins me in the next verse, her arms waving and her hair flying. There’s a radiant energy in her when she sings that’s impossible to contain, and I hope she never loses that spark.
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In summary, this journey of losing and rediscovering my voice reflects both personal growth and the joy of sharing music with my children. Embracing these moments not only strengthens our bond but also instills confidence and creativity in the next generation.