Bad mommy

Right after September 11, the passengers on my M14 bus were more mute and blank-faced than usual. Rather than reading or murmuring into their phones, they stared out the windows at the missing posters attached to every available surface.

Abruptly, the silence was broken: “I’m gonna rouge my knees and roll my stockings down… and all that jazz!” Every head turned in my direction.

“Start the car, I know a whoopee spot where the gin is cold but the piana’s HOT.”

No, Bebe Neuwirth was not on board. Rather, it was my five-year-old daughter, who had decided to serenade the somber crowd. I was on the receiving end of dozens of raised eyebrows and “Do something” stares. But before I could shush her, a grandmotherly type came to my rescue. “A singing child is a happy child,” she declared.

Which is how I’ve always felt about music. Doesn’t matter what you’re singing or how off-key it comes out, as long as you’re part of the choir. During the Chicklet’s formative years, the music she heard was what I liked: Broadway show tunes, ’70s rock, ’80s pop, anything by Bruce Springsteen. In the car, if there was no CD handy, we’d click on a classic-rock or reggae station.