Upon hearing how lame I think children’s music is (aside from the one Sesame Street album I play for my benefit), a friend of mine gave me a CD of children’s-style instrumentals of U2 songs. While not a big U2 fan, I did think it would be a nice upgrade from repeatedly listening to “Banana Phone” which I’m sure is erasing Elijah’s IQ.
Given the fact that I haven’t been a real dad this week, this morning was my first chance to hear it. Get this. The CD starts out with “Sunday Bloody Sunday.” Yeah yeah, the CD is instrumental. But our house is pro-singing. So while it was playing in Eli’s room, Diana was belting the lyrics in our room while she was folding laundry:
Broken bottles under children's feet
And bodies strewn across the dead end street
But I won't heed the battle call
It puts my back up
Puts my back up against the wall
Sunday, bloody Sunday
Sunday, bloody Sunday
Sunday, bloody Sunday
Sunday, bloody Sunday
As I stomped over to throw the CD and CD player out the window, it dawned on me that over the last 14 months, Diana and I have made up several equally damaging songs of our own. Here is just a sample of our new album: “Diana and Rick: Songs To Cause Your Son To Go To A Psychiatrist When He’s 22.”
Track 1: “You got some poopies in your pants pants pants.”
Track 2: “You smell like a pee pee factory.”
Track 3: “You are a poopy guy, you are a poopy guy, you are a poopy poopy guy.”
Track 4: “Eli has a poopy butt, doo da, doo da.”
So what’s a little “Sunday Bloody Sunday” on a Sunday when you have some poopies in your pants pants pants?
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