Wiggle, Wiggle, Wiggle!

In the spirit of full disclosure, I would like to document the recent moment when I realized, suddenly and officially, that it was time to start being a parent. Of course, I’ve been a parent for months. But not so much a parent telling anyone what to do or how to be, so much as a parent keeping the kid alive. Protecting, cherishing, cuddling, diaper-changing, of course, but more tending to physical needs and providing care than actively teaching and shaping in a tangible sense.

Several weeks ago, Doug and I were fresh off a majestic (kid-free) weekend in Paso Robles wine country for one of our best friend’s weddings. Every detail about the weekend was dreamy times 10: The luscious scenery, the incredible food, the huge house full of our best friends from USC. And, notably, the playlist for the reception. Blake, the groom, an extremely ambitious and meticulous fellow, let us know that he specifically selected each song to play in a very specific order to go with the flow of the night, from the early-evening feel-good love tunes to the late-night ghetto-dance rap. Blake did NOT disappoint. He should stop being such a business man and become a professional DJ.

I can’t remember the last time Doug and I danced so much. Maybe it had just been a while, or maybe we were just elated to dance with our old best friends, or maybe Blake’s just that good, but I’m pretty sure we never left the dance floor for longer than 45 seconds, which was only to rehydrate or use the restroom.

As happens with weddings, there was one song from the night that was so awesomely catchy, inappropriate, dance-worthy and delicious that it stuck in our head for days: Wiggle by Jason Derulo featuring Snoop Dogg. If you’ve never heard it, PLEASE don’t look up the lyrics because I don’t want be responsible for defiling you. All you need to know is that it’s a strangely addictive jam about especially large bottoms and what to do with them, which is to wiggle them, yes, naturally.

So a few days after our return from the weekend, Doug, Emerson and I were all driving together in my Volvo. Of course, I had already created a killer Spotify playlist featuring all the best songs from our weekend. And of course, said playlist featured our new favorite song, with its super-classy chorus: ”Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle!!!!”

When the song came on, I turned it up extra loud for a Mack Car Dance Party, as happens often. But about a fourth of the way through the song, I started actually listening to the words. I looked back at Emerson, grinning and wiggling along, and suddenly I was petrified. The rapper was rapping “patty cake” and it was NOT about innocent patty cakes. Panicked mom turns volume down.

“Babe,” I turned to Doug. “Do you think, um, maybe Emerson’s getting to the age where we should start watching what music we listen to when she’s around?”

He glanced back at the wiggler, then at me, then back at the wiggler, looking oh-so-torn between intuitive parenting and intuitive wiggling. “Yes,” he concluded and sighed. “This song is actually pretty horrible.” Convicted dad turns music all the way off.

It’s important that I mention now that Emerson is a very new talker, with a growing but limited vocab. She says mama, dada, baby, bow-wow, ball, wa-wa, and a handful of other “words,” like any everyday 18-month-old. She’s no crazy sentence-speaker or fancy orator.

But that didn’t stop her from filling the car’s short-lived silence with the loudest shout, clear as the windshield:

“WIGGLE, WIGGLE, WIGGLE!”

O.M.G!!!!

Parents = Stunned. Speechless. Horrified. Guilty.

Then quickly unable to tame our laughter.

“Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle!”

“Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle!”

“Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle!”

Well, look at that! Our daughter had a new favorite word. Emerson wouldn’t quit.

“I think we just got our answer!” Doug chimed over the super-charged back-seat wiggle-fest. “Easy on the Snoop Dogg, perhaps.”

Thankfully, the word “wiggle” also happens to star in a number of innocuous kids’ songs and TV programs, so strangers don’t necessarily look at me judgingly in the middle of Trader Joe’s when Emerson starts shouting her wiggles. (What is with kids and their crazy memories?!) Anyone who knows the song well knows that her intonation and repetition are indisputably Derulo-ey, and she’s garnered a few knowing laughs, but for the most part, we’re flying under the radar as the Parents Who Ruined Our Baby.

What did I learn from this?

1. My daughter is watching everything I do, say, see, hear, read, wear and watch, soaking me in like a delicate sponge. Day in and day out, I am the one creating her truths, pointing her moral compass and monitoring the intake of her precious subconscious. Totally no pressure at all.
2. I adore my Top-40 rap. But now I save my wiggles for the gym.