Stuck in the loop once again

Posted Mar 10, 2009 by Mike Winter

Updated Mar 10, 2009 at 04:41 PM

My daughter has, apparently, done everything for me, while I, in my infinite selfishness, have done nothing for her. I know this because she told me recently while we were on our way to school. Actually, she told me several times while nodding her head rhythmically. And kicking the back of my seat. Repeatedly. I had to endure these disparaging remarks, reiterated at regular intervals, for three minutes and 23 seconds. After a brief pause during which she seemed to at least toy with the possibility of moving on to a new topic, she roused herself enough to bark out a one-word command: “Again!”

And so I hit the button and listened once more to Rick Springfield’s cover of Sammy Hagar’s “I’ve Done Everything For You.” I didn’t regret going to the store and fishing a copy of “Working Class Dog” out of the used CDs bin. Not yet. Tess had been pining for the song for weeks, ever since she heard a snippet of the chorus while I was channel surfing and begged me to “Go back! Go back! Go back!” I was a bit surprised by her sudden passion for this 80s “classic,” surprised and yes, I’ll admit, a little proud. Of all the songs she could have fixated on, of all the Britneys and Jessicas and Mileys out there filling the airwaves with mind-rotting bubblegum claptrap, she chose a solid, up-tempo rock song, a toe-tapper I could actually tolerate listening to more than once.

Or twice.

Or even three times.

Four, however, is where I draw the limit. Or more accurately, four is where our drive time draws the limit. Which is convenient, since listening to “I’ve Done Everything For You” five times in a row, every morning for six weeks would have driven me off the cliff of sanity. Listening to “I’ve Done Everything For You” four times in a row, every morning for six weeks has merely taken me into the parking lot of “Insanity Overlook,” where I sit, twitching and idling while Tess assures me for the umpteenth time that she’s givin’ up on love this time and that she and her friends, they’ll do just fine.

This isn’t the first time my daughter has gotten stuck in a loop. Three years ago we had what seemed like an endless “Nemo Summer,” during which time the Pixar movie played pretty much nonstop in our household. Nothing could dislodge Tess from her roost before that shimmering, underwater world of bright colors, flowing scenery and drifting bubbles – nothing except for the angler fish that almost eats Nemo’s dad. That always sent her shooting off into the next room like a bar of soap squeezed through wet fingers. And shooting back again just as fast once the scary part was over. She became obsessed with all things Nemo. She was like a clownfish junkie. She couldn’t get enough. She had Nemo sheets. Nemo dishes. Nemo bath toys. Nemo pajamas. Nemo toothpaste. Nemo soldering guns. (Not that it improved her work any. All her soldering lines were still as crooked as a seahorse’s back.)

Eventually, my wife and I decided to draw the line. Tess could watch “Finding Nemo” once a week. That’s enough for any rational human being. And if she didn’t like it, we could make it once a month. How’s them apples? Oh yes, we were prepared to lay down the law. So it was with steely resolve that I sat my daughter down and laid out the new world order to her. Turned out she was not upset in the slightest. I was relieved.

Then I was concerned.

“So you understand, we’re not going to be watching Nemo everyday.” I wanted to make sure we were all on the same page.

“Daddy,” she assured me with a wave of her hand. “I don’t even care about Nemo anymore. I only like Dalmatians now.”

It was the beginning of our “101-Days-Of-Puppy-Love,” a mind-numbing experience I never fully recovered from (I’m still seeing spots.)

So now we’ve moved on to Rick Springfield and Sammy Hagar. Compared to what I’ve been through, this is a walk in the park. Or so I thought until last week.

“Daddy,” my daughter said from the back seat as we pulled up at school.

“Yeah, honey.”

“When I grow up, I want to be a rock star.”

Thanks a lot, Rick and Sammy. You’ve made me nostalgic for Nemo.