Shit My Inner Child Says
We have an under-utilized karaoke machine in our living room, standing in a place of semi-prominence next to the fireplace. My husband bought it for me because I was missing karaoke nights with my friends back in Portland–an initial investment of a couple hundred bucks, plus the ten dollars a month I'm spending on a subscription to a service that provides the actual song tracks and lyrics for karaoke. We have used it a few times, not quite enough to match our expenditures. I'm the only one who really likes to sing, but my husband has gotten in on it a few times, and our son has used the wireless mics to try a little stand-up comedy on the living room rug. I've found it surprisingly fulfilling to just sit on the couch and sing without shame into a microphone. It scratches the itch when I can't herd some friends together for a bar karaoke night planned weeks in advance.
Thanks to my first grader, the living room has lately been taken over by video games and repeated viewings of Shrek. I decided to muscle my way into the schedule by suggesting a round of karaoke. Everyone consented, if only passively, and my son seemed like he wanted to join in or at least hang out while I sang. His idea of joining in was jumping on the couch, wiggling, and being generally disruptive during my song, then bogarting the mic to amplify his funny sounds, including fart noises. He whined when I tried to take back the microphone after roughly the length of a song, and I whined right back that it was supposed to be my turn again. We bickered for a few minutes before I changed my mind about karaoke night, killed the machine, and went to my room. I didn't quite throw myself onto the bed, but I did lie down.
I'm astonished at how childish I can be around my son when I feel I'm not getting my way. Every week I hear words leaving my mouth in a poorly considered, petulant tone that I'm sure would mortify my friends and neighbors if they could hear me. (Then again, maybe they've overheard me more than I'd like to believe.) I hate that I do this. Parents are supposed to be better at rising above it, setting an example for observant children who whine only because they haven't perfected better forms of expression. Unfortunately, setting a good example is only one of many imperatives that I juggle at any given time, and a responsibility that I readily let go of when feeling wounded. "I spend all my time tending to YOU and your emotions, and now you need to acknowledge MINE," my inner child longs to say to my actual child. That and, "I want YOU to grow up and stop acting childish in this moment."
Even without those words, I know that my kid picks up on the sudden and disturbing role reversal. While I was lying on the bed after failed karaoke, he approached my door to say sorry. All he wanted was the return of his mother as a real adult with self-control. It took me a few minutes to come back.