My son Max turns a year old on April 3. He was born just two weeks after I joined Team Rhapsody -- I'd recommend moving an eight-and-a-half-months pregnant lady from NYC to the Bay Area to anyone. And thus one of my first playlists for Rhapsody was "Songs I've Sung My Newborn Son," a bewildered jumble of Tom Petty, Johnny Cash, YG, Andrea Bocelli (known in our house as "Papa JoJo") and the theme from Cheers.
Nearly a year later, he's not sleeping much better than he did as a newborn, alas, and so I often find myself in his room at 2:30 a.m., singing songs about tequila, prostitutes, death, unrequited love and whatever Beck's "Jack-Ass" is about. We're in the twilight of the not-repeating-everything-you-say period, so I guess I'm reveling in it. Meanwhile, he's dancing occasionally now, which explains "Dancing Machine," "Single Ladies," and most notably The Ting-Tings' "That's Not My Name." Climactically, we have "Racks," which stands in for my habit of singing, "Max on Max on Max!" whenever he crawls by. He's currently obsessed with Sesame Street and Elmo in particular, so if I do this again next year I imagine we'll be knee-deep in Barney and Dora and whoever. But for now, Morphine it is. Please go the f*ck to sleep.