“Mama, I like your music.”
I was surprised.
The edgy sounds of alt rock filled the air. It was my driving music.
That’s the only time I listen to what I want.
It’s a treat I give myself.
No songs about barnyard animals. No lullabies. No children’s classics.
And my almost three-year old appeared to like it.
I followed up.
“You like my music?”
“Yes, Mama,” he answered.
“Do you like my music or Daddy’s music better?”
Daddy’s music is country.
My husband and I are different in so many ways.
And music is only one of them.
Sometimes I want to pull my hair out when we ride in his car.
How many different ways are there to sing about tractors?
And he’s been trying to indoctrinate the boy.
“Your music,” my son said.
I breathed a sigh of relief.
Apparently music taste is passed along in the genes.
And my superior genes trumped.
But then the boy continued.
“And the baby’s music….”
I was confused.
The baby, at six months old, hasn’t really chosen a genre yet.
I mean, she’s clearly a baby genius and advanced beyond her months.
But she’s not a music aficionado.
Then he clarified.
“The baby’s music. In her Exercauser. I really like that music.”
So much for those super-music taste genes.