So there I was early last Friday morning, pleased as punch to have the car for once instead of schlepping to work by SkyTrain, when CBC blind-sided me with a Raffi song.
I hadn’t realized it was him, the singer of Baby Beluga and Bananaphone and all those other chirpy kid songs that were implanted in my brain in the early ’90s when my own two children started roaming the planet.
I’d turned on the radio mid-interview, and was only half-listening to the friendly back-and-forth between Rick Cluff and the earnest guy who was talking about his Child Honouring Centre on Saltspring Island.
Child Honouring of any sort before 9 am, when caffeine levels are not yet stabilized, is more than I can really handle, so I kind of checked out of the interview.
And then suddenly it was over and the earnest guy was now singing and it was Raffi reminding me that “all I really need is a song in my heart, and love in my family.”
And to my list of 34 symptoms of menopause, I added a 35th: crying uncontrollably in the car to Raffi songs that remind me of how good it was to sing about little whales to toddlers on potties, and how intensely I miss the messy and creative business of day-to-day mothering.
Thanks Raffi. I’m glad I managed to pull over before I killed anyone. I’ve been singing that damn song all weekend.