In the morning, on the way to my office/his day care, Little Boy is relaxed. He’ll stare out the window, content, occasionally piping up with an observation (“Machina lights!” if a police car, ambulance, or fire truck happens by, followed by “Loud!”) or a desire (“Big water!” Oh, me too, I wanna go to the beach.) It’s a different story in the afternoon on the way home. He’s all keyed up from day care and wants to do nothing but rock out to satellite radio. He doesn’t understand that I have no control over the playlists, and if a song he likes ends (today it was UB40’s “Red, Red Wine”), he’ll demand “Again!” and get very sore when I cannot oblige. Today, he started to cry.
“Listen to this music!” I said, trying to appease him with the Eurythmics.
“No! No good!” Little Boy insisted, tears streaming down his face.
I tried the Coffehouse station: Van Morrison’s “Dominoes.”
“No! No good!” Little Boy bayed, his fists scrunching up with frustration.
I tried Lithium, the 90s alternative station: Alanis Morrissette.
“No! No good!” That was me, actually.
I flipped through dozens of stations, getting increasingly negative responses over everything from Elvis to Coolio to Katy Perry to Pink Floyd. Finally, I landed back to Lithium, which was playing “El Scorcho” by Weezer.
The noises in the back stopped. “Mommy, this music is good!”I heard, and I snuck a glance over my shoulder to see Little Boy smiling and busting out makeshift dance grooves to the extent allowable by his car seat.
Well, okay. He really likes Weezer. That makes sense. Could this Little Boy be anything but a Weezer fan?
