Gin and Juice

We are driving to my mother's house in Beaver County, Pennsylvania when Alice begins wailing uncontrollably, pinwheeling her little arms and bucking against the confines of her car seat.

"Quick!" I yell to Spiceboy over her cries. "Put on some music, maybe it will calm her down."

Spiceboy grabs a random CD and shoves it into the player. Unfortunately, our vehicular music collection is severely outdated, as our car spends most of its time in Pittsburgh and we spend most of our time in New York.

It's a mix CD of hip hop songs from the late 80's through about 2003. We try Public Enemy, Missy Elliott, Notorious B.I.G., and Tupac in hopes of soothing the savage beast wailing from the back seat, but her screaming only intensifies.

"Listen, Alice," calls Spiceboy in desperation, turning up the volume to Baby Got Back. "It's Sir Mix-a-Lot! Don't you like Sir Mix-a-Lot?"

Alice clearly does not care for Sir Mix-a-Lot.

The last track on the CD is Gin and Juice. When the bass starts, Alice's wrinkled little face smooths out, her arms stop flailing, and her eyes take on a peaceful expression. Snoop Dogg sings "G's up, ho's down," and Alice breaks into a huge grin. And as our trusty Volvo station wagon bounces along the rough Pennsylvania highways and Snoop Dogg waxes poetic about Tanqueray and chronic, our sweet baby girl drifts off to sleep with a smile on her face.