I was driving along in a road-induced haze yesterday when my four-year-old pipes up from the back seat: “I like this music, mommy!”
Her words snapped me back into focus as I suddenly realized that Drowning Pool is blasting on the radio.
Hmm… probably a little inappropriate, I thought. I glanced at the rear view mirror to see Brontë shaking her arms and head-banging in her carseat. “You like it?” I asked her.
“YES!” Brontë squealed before chanting along:
“LET THE POTTIES HIT THE FLO! LET THE POTTIES HIT THE FLO! RAAAWWWWRRRRRR!”
She’s all over that song now. She keeps singing it while tooling around with Legos or chasing the cat, like it’s her new anthem: “Let the potties hit the floor! Let the potties hit the floor!”
I keep picturing a pack of rampaging toddlers tearing up a Toys ‘R’ Us to this beat, knocking potties off shelves and shaking their tiny fists. And I’m not sure I can take the song seriously any more.