Because when I was little, I went to Auntie’s house.

Auntie (which is phonetically pronounced “Ahntie”) ran a daycare service in her New Rochelle, NY house. My brother, Matthew and I at age two and four, were just two kids in what felt like a nation of children who stayed with Auntie while their parents worked.

As with all childhood memories, the images I conjure up are BIG: a massive dining room table where we’d all eat our Campbell’s Soup for lunch (hiding Lima beans in our pockets), the long flight of stairs up to her front door, the expanse of plastic slip covered sofa where we were not allowed to play…

The other kids at Auntie’s were mainly from the neighborhood, while Matthew and I lived in another town. They were boisterous and fearless where we were quiet and cautious. But we blended in. Soon enough, we laughed just as loud and played just as hard.

As the only white girl at Auntie’s, I was exotic for the first and only time in my plain jane life. My hair fell flat where theirs could be sculpted into shapes. My nose turned pink after time in the sun. And my hazel eyes would sometimes look green while theirs stayed the deepest of browns.

On the outside I couldn’t be more different. But not on the inside. My new friends marveled over my otherness but only for the novelty. Little girls are far too landlocked by their constant quest for common ground to be distracted for long. All little girls giggle in harmony, speak the language of fairy tales and whisper universal secrets that only fade with puberty.

My brother’s bright chestnut head was the only distinguishing feature in the blur of boys tearing through the house, as boys are even less concerned with external appearance. While the girls initially wanted to stroke my head and pinch my cheeks, the boys barely paused to pull Matthew into their hectic orbit. Pushing him to keep up or get out of the way. There wasn’t time for scrutiny.

But what I remember most about Auntie’s house was the music.

Auntie had teenagers who filled the house with more than just their presence. Arriving home after 3:00, they played their music loudly. Music from 1976 that commanded you to hustle, boogie and shake, shake, shake. Floors and walls pulsed with the sound of drums, bass and horn sections. Every movement of the teenagers kept time with these rhythms and they pulled us all in their wake.

During school hours when the teenagers weren’t there, the little kids would still hustle and boogie. We would sing the songs and choreograph dances. The boys would lose interest quickly, but the girls worked diligently to perfect routines.

I would bring these home and was frequently asked to perform Boogie Fever for visiting friends and relatives. I didn’t like or understand their gales of laughter. There was dignity in my disco.

As memorable as our time at Auntie’s was, it wasn’t very long. Just a year or two. Just long enough for a little disco to grab hold and not let go. And I would carry that always. First as a secret shame in the 80s – then as a triumphant comeback years later.

I rarely listen to the radio anymore. Instead I spend my commute reading via recorded books. There is so little time at home, making this the only way that I can feed my cravings for stories. But the kids are getting older now – no longer babies, but small children who like to dance and giggle as they try to sing along with their favorite songs.

I find that I frequently turn off my stories and listen to theirs (or at least Eleanor’s). Their exclamations over the world whizzing past now require a response. They need me to be actively engaged in their wonder.

So instead I turn on the radio. Now that it’s warm, I put the windows down. I yell at the kids to keep their hands inside, but secretly want to push my own palm against the press of air. I sing along with the songs I know – and even the ones I don’t know. And feel wave after wave of sense memories from high school when driving with the windows down and music blasting was a given.

Then the opening notes of something familiar distract me. I feel very young inside, far younger than I did in my previous reverie. If I close my eyes I can hear the sound of girlish giggling and possibly even feel the ghost of a small hand running through my hair (unless of course, that’s Oliver who just escaped from his seat belt).

But I don’t close my eyes (because you know, I’m driving) and I know that the giggles are coming from my own children who apparently like Donna Summer too. I turn up the volume. On the Radio transports me to a time when I had so few worries and responsibilities (other than covert disposal of the hated Lima beans). And I think that maybe I’ll do this more often, not just for me, but for the three little people in the back seat.

They are absorbing the world around them in the same way I did, and they need more music in their day. Particularly in the car when they have nothing to do but look and listen. They need a rythm to tap with their feet, a melody to lift up their hearts, and possibly a strings section for effect. They need more than Twinkle Twinkle Little Star…they need Donna Summer and Stevie Wonder and Barry White. They need music with impossible high notes and finger snapping backup vocalists. They need a soundtrack. One you can dance to.

Because I think they’ve got a little disco in their souls too.