An Army of Princesses is Invading My Subconscious
Along with a Battalion of Unicorns, Care Bears, and Several Talking Dogs
This morning, I regained waking consciousness and was immediately greeted with the thought of song lyrics. The song I thought of was from Disney/Pixar’s animated film Frozen II, and it’s a catchy tune, sure, but this involuntary mental melody struck me as a dark portent. An ominous sign from the universe that all this sparkly princess culture had finally permeated too far.
You see, before fatherhood, the lyrics ambling about the annals of my cortex were akin to Three-6 Mafia, Slipknot, and Afroman (all startlingly explicit, for the uninitiated), and I was perfectly content hearing this raucous collection of gentlemen tell whomever was listening to fuck straight off in their respective unique styles. But now, post-spawn, I’m subjected to a merciless onslaught of anthropomorphized mythical woodland creatures teaching me how to be a better friend through their haunting hooks and undeniably brilliant rhyming schemes.
The dilemma is compounded by my compulsion to sing throughout my daily grind. I am a man who needs to sing. Whether in the shower, on the daily commute, or in between serious tasks for which I’m being paid by responsible adults, expect me to tear into verse at truly any moment. As one might guess, the specific ditty with which I regale those (un)lucky enough to be in earshot often corresponds with the tune on loop in my mind at that moment. So the issue rears itself when absent-mindedly waiting for a meeting to begin, I’m heard softly reciting (in perfect pitch, mind you) a song about a young tiger who attends school in the Neighborhood of Make Believe.
I’ve been conned. I knew parenthood would be full of challenges, but I did not sign up for this kind of humiliation.
The only solace is knowing that when my 4-year-old daughter, Lilith, the courier of my new musical hellscape, seems glum, I can promptly brighten her eyes by breaking into a chorus that she knows even better than I do. We must take the good with the bad, I suppose.
This morning, I rolled over in bed to find that same child culprit wide-eyed and waiting for me.
“Hi, Daddy,” she said softly.
“Lilith,” I said, “the first words I hear in my mind after waking up now belong to Princess Anna. This is all your fault.”
She giggled, stood up in the bed, and proceeded to unleash a WWE-style knee drop onto my ribs while hollering, “Get up!”
And so we did. And it’s been a good day so far, despite — or perhaps thanks to — the music in my head.
