Once upon a time this mother was riding with her daughter, and the daughter – who shall remain nameless but rhymes with Banana – is in charge of the musical playlist, which is quite diverse and hasn’t changed much since she was three years old:

  • Broadway mixed with 80s
  • Off-Broadway mixed with oldies
  • … and the good stuff: 90s country

When she was but a wee one she would act out Phantom of the Opera with her Barbie and Ken dolls.

She’s good stuff, is what I’m trying to relate to you. Fruit of my looms.

But then a song comes on and daughter excitedly says this:

“Oh, Mom, these guys are really good! You’d like them! They’re called You Too, but it’s spelled like this,” proceeds to write in the air with her finger (which should be at ten and two since she’s driving) the letter U followed by the number 2.

A shocked and appalled century goes by as I sit in silence and contemplate:

A. throwing myself out of the car into the nearest ditch and dying there quietly as I deserve, or

B. taking the next left and not stopping until I reach Mexico, where I can take up a new life and identity.

Friends and family, I have tried, but I have failed.

I wore out U2 CDs her entire childhood. Her childhood’s theme music would indeed be U2, peppered with Bon Jovi, Aerosmith, and Veggie Tales. But so much U2.

The B Sides? Started skipping with overuse back in 2015.

The Joshua Tree? Literally disintegrated.

Rattle and Hum? Not sure I played anything else throughout the 2000s.

This is the end of me. I have failed at this thing called parenting.

(No, really: Read it here.)

Once I regained my strength enough to write my will, leaving my music collection to ANOTHER OFFSPRING, ANY OFFSPRING, she asked,

“So this ISN’T a little known Indie band I just discovered that no one else knows about?”

Goodbye, world.

Perhaps if I am reincarnated and can become a mother again, I will do better.

Until then, I have a 19 year old for sale. Free to good home.