Cookie: Dad, stop. I want to eat at this restaurant. I like the music.
That’s not quite what I expected to hear from my two-year old as we walked down the street, but I’ve learned to just accept and adapt. Besides, Miles Davis? Good choice, kiddo.
I’m not sure where you obtained your musical tastes. Like every other read-the-same-book-extra-IQ-points-maybe-bandwagon-parent, Mommy played Bach and Mozart for you non-stop (from womb speakers to your crib mobile to your toddler sleep radio). Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing wrong with Bach or Mozart, but their exquisite pieces are not the ones coded into the cheap plastic speakers mass marketed to the bandwagon parents. Even pedestrian Mozart sonatas, however, is preferable to the mindless swill that is labeled as kid music, badly sung by costumed dinosaurs, and tolerated by parents for their supposed educational value. I’m not sure how kids can tolerate such endless torture (apparently some of these songs are being used as actual torture), and I am very thankful that you are not one of those kids who demands endless repetition.
Miles Davis aside, given what music was fed to you your short life thus far, I was very shocked and proud one Saturday afternoon. We were sitting at the bar in a burger restaurant on one of our Daddy-Daughter Days (also known as Mommy’s day off). You suddenly put down the burger and turned towards me with a very serious face.
Cookie: Daddy, I like this song. It’s now my favorite.
Pink Floyd’s The Wall. I can’t fault your taste, but that’s not a song I was going to introduce to you at two.
Now I just have to figure out how keep you from being zombiefied by the latest boy-troop tripe.