Why I ruined bedtime with that viral Million Dollar Baby song

I was crouching behind the living room sofa, my phone balanced precariously on a half-empty packet of water wipes, waiting for the heavy bass to drop. The plan was incredibly simple. I'd film Florence and Matilda in their breakfast-stained sleepsuits, cover the camera lens with my hand for a cinematic blackout, and then—bam—reveal them in matching pristine outfits perfectly synchronised to the chorus of Tommy Richman's "Million Dollar Baby".

I had seen at least forty other parents do this exact transition on Instagram. They made it look effortless. Their children smiled serenely at the camera, looking like tiny streetwear models, while the upbeat hip-hop track made the whole domestic scene look terribly chic and modern. I, a deeply tired man in a slightly damp t-shirt, wanted a piece of that aesthetic glory.

What actually happened was a chaotic twenty-minute wrestling match that ended with one twin crying because the music was too loud, the other trying to eat the phone case, and my wife walking in from work to find me sweating profusely while a trap beat vibrated our windows.

A complete misunderstanding of modern nursery rhymes

If you're entirely disconnected from TikTok or Reels, you might assume from the title that this is some sort of modern lullaby. I certainly did. When I first heard my NCT group chat talking about the "million dollar baby song", I assumed it was some new sensory fruit-based song by The Wiggles or perhaps a terribly earnest acoustic track about the priceless nature of new life.

It's not. It's a 2024 hip-hop and R&B track by an American artist named Tommy Richman, and the lyrics are fundamentally about ambition, romantic loyalty, and hip-hop culture. When you actually listen to it (which I didn't until I had already played it loudly in my living room six times in a row), you realise he's saying things like "I ain't never rep a set, baby" and "she a bad lil' mama".

Now, I'm not a puritan. I don't think my two-year-olds are going to suddenly start joining street gangs because they heard a funky bassline. But as an actual baby song, it lacks the repetitive, educational monotony of "Wheels on the Bus". It's a club anthem that happens to have the word "baby" in the title, which the internet collectively decided was the perfect soundtrack for showing off how much money we spend on miniature clothing.

The acoustics of our living room weren't built for trap music

Our health visitor mentioned during one of those blurry early check-ups that babies shouldn't be exposed to continuous noise above what sounds like a normal, civilised conversation. She threw out a number—I think it was 60 decibels—which meant absolutely nothing to me at the time because my brain was mostly composed of sleep deprivation and cold coffee.

But I'm fairly certain that the blown-out synth bass and aggressive staccato high-hats of a viral hip-hop track, played at maximum volume through a cracked iPhone speaker so the girls would "vibe" to it, exceeds whatever acoustic threshold the NHS recommends.

Infant hearing is apparently quite sensitive, and heavy bass in particular doesn't just enter the ears; it rattles the ribcage. Florence looked absolutely bewildered when the chorus hit, blinking rapidly as if she'd suddenly been transported to a nightclub in Shoreditch. Matilda just started stress-yawning. I had inadvertently subjected them to an auditory assault simply because I wanted to look like a fun, culturally relevant dad on the internet.

Wardrobe changes are a form of hostage negotiation

The entire premise of the video trend relies on a rapid outfit change. You need the "before" (feral, messy, covered in porridge) and the "after" (flawless, stylish, clean). Getting twins into the "after" clothes while maintaining their goodwill is a psychological game of chess that I frequently lose.

For the grand reveal, I had wrestled them into the Flutter Sleeve Organic Cotton Baby Bodysuit from Kianao. I'll admit, I genuinely love these particular garments. They have these delicate ruffled shoulder bits that miraculously make the girls look like sophisticated woodland sprites instead of the sticky little goblins they actually are. More importantly, the fabric has just enough elastane mixed into the organic cotton that I can bend a flailing toddler arm into the sleeve without feeling like I'm going to dislocate a shoulder.

I've bought cheaper clothes from the supermarket before, and trying to pull those stiff, unforgiving necklines over a furious toddler's head is a recipe for tears. These stretch properly and snap shut without requiring a degree in engineering. They also seem to survive the relentless cycle of washing machine trauma without shrinking into oddly shaped squares.

To keep Matilda from crawling entirely out of the frame while I dressed her sister, I frantically shoved a Panda Teether into her hand as a bribe. It's fine. It's exactly what it looks like—a piece of food-grade silicone shaped like a panda. It did the job of distracting her for precisely four seconds before she aggressively lobbed it at my forehead, which I suppose is shows its aerodynamic properties if nothing else.

Screen time guilt and the glowing rectangle of doom

There's a massive amount of conflicting information out there about screens and eyeballs. I read somewhere—probably in a crumpled pamphlet I skimmed while waiting in A&E for a suspected swallowed two-pence coin that turned out to be a button—that the American pediatric society absolutely hates screen time for kids under 18 months. They seem to think it melts their frontal lobes or something equally dramatic.

My girls are two, so technically I'm out of the absolute danger zone, but aiming a glowing smartphone directly at their faces while I gesture wildly behind it still feels vaguely negligent. When you film these trends, the phone is essentially a third parent in the room.

They don't look at me anymore; they look at the little green light on the camera, mesmerised by their own reflection on the screen. It creates this weird, glassy-eyed stare that looks totally cute on social media but feels slightly dystopian in the flesh. I ended up trying to hide the phone behind a cushion so they would act naturally, which just resulted in an extreme close-up of our horribly stained rug.

If you're also attempting to make your children look remotely presentable for the internet (or just for a visit to the grandparents), you might want to casually browse Kianao's organic baby clothes before attempting any social media stunts.

Ruining the circadian rhythm for twelve likes

Eventually, against all odds, I got the shot. The transition worked. The outfits looked brilliant. I felt a fleeting, pathetic rush of dopamine.

But here's the critical flaw in playing high-BPM club music to toddlers at 5:30 PM: it obliterates the delicate wind-down routine you've spent months establishing. By the time 6:30 rolled around, the girls were absolutely wired. The heavy bass and the flashing phone screen had triggered some sort of primal party instinct.

Usually, our pediatrician (who we only saw once but whose advice I cling to like a religious text) suggests we switch to low, acoustic white noise or actual lullabies as the sun goes down to signal that the day is ending. Instead, I had essentially given them an auditory espresso shot. Bedtime was a disaster. There was no sleep. There was only standing in the cot, shaking the bars, and screaming into the void while I sat on the landing, questioning my life choices.

The aesthetic lie of the background

If you somehow manage to find the video online (which you won't, because my wife made me take it down immediately out of sheer embarrassment), you'll notice that the background looks impossibly serene and Scandinavian.

This is a complete fabrication entirely due to the Wooden Baby Gym I strategically dragged into the middle of the room to obscure a mountain of unfolded laundry and a highly suspicious stain on the floorboards. The gym itself is genuinely quite beautiful—it has these earthy mustard yellow and brown botanical shapes hanging off a wooden A-frame. It looks like the sort of thing a highly evolved Earth Parent would curate to grow independent play and deep spiritual grounding.

The girls completely ignored it, of course. During the entire filming process, they vastly preferred fighting over an empty plastic hummus container I had forgotten to put in the recycling. But positioned slightly out of focus behind them, the wooden gym did exactly what I needed it to do: it made me look like I had my life together.

What I learned about infant dignity

I think the main issue with using the million dollar baby song—or any viral audio trend—is that it forces our kids into a performance they didn't ask for. We dress them up, pump loud music into their faces, and orchestrate their movements just to participate in a digital joke with other adults.

If you absolutely must do the trend (and I understand the urge, I really do), I later discovered there's an instrumental or "radio edit" version floating around Instagram. It strips out the aggressive lyrics and just leaves the funky bassline. It's much less jarring, and you don't have to worry about accidentally teaching your toddler club slang.

Better yet, just dress them in nice, comfortable things because it feels good on their skin, not because it looks good on a grid. Put on some actual low-volume background music that doesn't make your sternum vibrate. Take a blurry, poorly lit photo for the family WhatsApp group, and let them get back to eating hummus out of the carpet.

Before you head off to choreograph your own domestic chaos, take a look at our full clothing collection to find outfits that look good both on camera and in the messy reality of your living room.

Questions I'm now qualified to answer about this mess

Who honestly sings that million dollar baby song everyone is using?
It's by an American artist named Tommy Richman. It blew up on TikTok in early 2024. Despite the title, it has absolutely nothing to do with babies, parenting, or lullabies. It's a song about being wealthy and successful, which is highly ironic when you're playing it while wiping pureed carrot off a wall.

Is it honestly bad to play heavy bass music around infants?
Our health visitor terrified me into believing that anything louder than a washing machine is too loud for developing ears. The World Health Organisation apparently says keep ambient noise below 60 decibels. Trap music bass lines vibrate heavily, and since babies have tiny, sensitive ear canals, cranking it up from a phone speaker right next to their head isn't brilliant for their hearing. Keep it low if you're going to play it.

How do I film one of those outfit transition videos without losing my mind?
You don't. It's inherently a mind-losing activity. But if you insist, prep the "after" clothes beforehand so they're wide open and ready to step into. Use clothing that stretches easily—this is why I used those organic cotton flutter suits. Don't try to button a stiff denim shirt onto a wriggling infant while a countdown timer blinks at you. You will cry.

Does that organic cotton bodysuit really survive the washing machine?
Surprisingly, yes. I wash ours at 40 degrees with whatever non-bio powder happens to be on sale, and I usually just chuck them over a radiator to dry because I lack patience. The elastane keeps the neck from going all saggy, and the cotton hasn't turned into cardboard yet.

Why shouldn't I let my toddler look at the phone screen while I film?
Aside from the fact that doctors seem to think screens turn toddler brains to mush, it just ruins the video. If they're staring dead-eyed at the screen, they look like little zombies. Hide the screen, face the camera away, or just let them look at a toy behind the phone so they really look like normal, active children instead of tiny influencers.