Amy Grant is My Spirit Animal

"Baby, Baby I am taking with the notion to love you with the sweetest of devotion."

 

It was my jam.

The rink lights dimmed.

My jeans were pegged to perfection.

His sweaty hand reached for mine.

Couple skate magic.

 

"The stars are shining for you."

 

I was eleven and omniscient. And in love with love.

 

"And just like me I'm sure that they adore you."

 

The world was my oyster.

 

. . . And then I grew up.  And became a cynical, tax-paying adult wrangling my three "spirited" kids, wondering whether Mac and Cheese counts as a vegetable and debating the dosage limits on the Benadryl.

 

Which is where I found myself when I heard that April marked the 25th anniversary of Amy Grant's "Baby, Baby."

 

*Gasp*

Twenty. Five. Freaking. Years.

 

If you need a moment to yourself with your wine bottle, I won't judge.

Actually, I'll join you.

 

So, to commemorate how quickly we've aged, Amy Grant and some tween, Tori Kelly, teamed up to release a  remake of the hit with less symphonic keyboard and more breathy American Idol-ness.

 

Personally, I would have preferred to commemorate with a Botox party. But, to each their own.

 

Confession:  I cannot stop listening to it. If I am honest, it is often accompanied by a Claire-Danes-ugly cry for all the dreams that died on that rink.

 

Blink. I swear that is all I did. And decades whizzed past. Then, I hear Amy's alto and I am reduced to a pre-adolescent, brace-faced, hot mess all over again.  

 

Like we were just seeing Marky Mark's six-pack for the very first time.

 

Initially, my kids were all like, "Tell us more of your lovely childhood memories, beautiful Mama."  Until the 16th replay. Then they were like, "Hey crazy lady- Make it stop. The stories. The song. The car dancing. Stop. Just stop."

 

Fast forward to yesterday's Hallmark-commercial parenting moment. It all began innocently enough. But, before you could say "Daniel Tiger" I found myself in an impassioned homily on the crazy that is Islamic Jihad.  You know, some light luncheon conversation with the kiddos.

 

After which, my 9-going on- 29 year old daughter applauded, "That was an amazing speech, Mom!"

 

Was it amazing? Was this my liberal arts degree finally at work in the way that all those cheery mommy bloggers promise is possible: Opening young minds in a Mr. Rodgers-PG-13 sort of way?

 

Ironically, of all the dreams I crafted with "Baby,Baby" as the soundtrack- none of them included this moment: A little ISIS over PB& J. 

 

Someone once had the audacity to suggestion to me that "Baby, Baby" was actually written in tribute to Grant's newborn. At that time, I laughed derisively. Her baby? Yeah, right.  Who would write a whole song for their child? Next, you'll be telling me that Marky Mark is going to be an actor!

 

Let me be the first to say it:  I knew nothing about anything at age eleven.

(Save for how to create a White Rain wave of bangs.)  

 

And actually- if I am going for broke here-  I did not even know much at twenty-five. So much for my fancy degrees. Well played admissions office, well played.  

 

However, what was clarifying was having a baby. My firstborn brought the world sharply into view.  My fierce, irrational love for her made me see with new eyes. 

 

Then, I had two more babies.

Mainly because once you get spider veins on one thigh, you should probably balance that out.

 

And well, in a rare moment of philosophical lucidity, three kids reveal both how much I know and how much I don't.

 

And then Mark Walhberg went and became an actor. So, apparently, anything is possible.

 

It's true. My three-person entourage did "put my heart in motion" in a way that my eleven year old self could have never conceived. In fact, being their mom is more gratifying than any swanky Foreign Service/super spy/ISIS-huntress job.

 

They are the best thing I have done ever done.  Hands. Down.

 

Just kidding. Hands- Up. Here comes my jam with Amy and Tori. Time for car dancing in my swagger wagon with my posse of three.

It's the stuff of this roller-skater's dreams.