There is no denying that this boy is mine. His preferences are becoming strong and obvious. I do my damnedest to keep my own likes and dislikes, however emphatic, out of the equation, expose him to everything I don’t find strongly objectionable. Bananas, even. That is how committed I am to creating a well-rounded child. I will stomach the handling of bananas, my own personal kryptonite.
We listen to a lot of different music, as his newfound love of dancing is so intense. We’ve always had a few iTunes playlists for different occasions, and we’ve listened to them over and over, like I am wont to do. We listen to the news while we eat breakfast and lunch. But he’s come up with his own sign for music, which involves a little shimmy and half of the ‘more’ sign. Imagine a really uncoordinated, wobbly Bollywood dancer, sitting down. The extended version of this is him actually dancing. And the more enthusiastically he does it, the more he likes the tunes.
Last night, we took George to our friend Amy G.‘s show. It was energetic, slightly awkward and dank. Just the way I want him to come to know basement shows. I am especially thrilled to have a little night owl on occasions like that one. He got to see a woman he likes in real life show off her talents. Sing honestly. Scream a little. And the music was good.
This morning, as he has done every morning for the past several weeks, when he woke up, he did his little turn-on-the-tunes wobble and I scanned the radio for something good. I stopped on KUGS but whatever was playing went completely unnoticed. Then, the classical station. Nothing. Also, THANK GOD — no reaction to the (already?! seriously?!) all Christmas station. Finally, we settled on the classic rock station. Roxanne. Both hands in the air, little body swaying, grinning like a goon. Then, Southern Man. Head bobbing, hands waving. Grunts! Neil never got a better review. Classic rock, my (not so) secret love. The music that feels like home, like being young. I’m glad it’s what resonates with him and I hope that doesn’t change so when we roadtrip it down the coast, or when I surprise-pick him up from school for a pizza lunch and movie date, we can turn on the radio and sing along together. Because it’s fun to put on your hipster best, to lament that you forgot your earplugs (again) and shiver the November night away to punkrock in a semi-familiar house/garage/basement. But sometimes, what fits is pajamas in your bedroom with your baby…and America.