Invisible airways crackle with life

It’s been a while, I know. I’m sorry. I had to cook dinner.

My daughter Lydia loves “Spirit of Radio” by Rush. Of course she does. And she loves Vampire Weekend’s “A-Punk.” She loves Coldplay, and Coldplay loves her right back. She also loves the Strawberry Shortcake soundtrack, whose composers found a way to write songs that lay eggs in your brain and hatch worms that burrow into your prefrontal cortex all day long. (Don’t. Ever. Play the song, “Friendship Boogie.” It will rewire your neuronal pathways permanently. You will still be singing that song in your mind long after you’ve lost control of your bowels for good.)

Lydia likes this music mostly because we like it. There’s no way Lydia’s going to go off and discover the Arctic Monkeys all on her own. We spoon-feed her this stuff because it’s what we play when we’re driving around or doing the dishes or trying to get Lydia’s parakeets to stop pooping in their water. Our music becomes her music, but it’s still pretty fun to watch her experience the Beatles for the first time. You discover the extent to which good music is enjoyed innately.

When Lydia hears a song she likes—in the the car, for example—she begs us to play it over and over until she owns it. “Okay, last time!” we shout from up front. And then we say it again when we play it again. One time she borrowed my i-Pod and speakers and played “Limelight,” the Ayn Rand-inflected Rush anthem, at least a dozen times in a row. Interestingly, she does not sing the songs she listens to—she’s busy imagining. Sometimes we’ll see her turn off the radio and walk off, her back straight, mumbling stories to herself. Her imagination needs a soundtrack; she carries the music off with her after we get puking tired of it and shut it off.

Louisa sings and dances to her favorites. It’s a public performance, too—out on the hard wood floor, full body participation. She favors the hits of the RockBand 2 soundtrack, but she’s also been known to want Coldplay every hour. What is it about that band that children love? They’re schmaltzy, sure, but they’re no Strawberry Shortcake.

Our son doesn’t dance much to the music he likes, but we hear him singing behind his closed door. He’s too young for a Megan Fox poster, but when I hear him in his room bellowing out “Welcome to the Jungle” by Guns N’ Roses, I start sniffing the air for pot. It’s all my fault, of course. Once I saw the way Ben responded to my kind of music, I started grooming his ear to take in my favorites, from Thelonius Monk to Nirvana. “In Bloom” is, of course, harmless. But really, Dad–”Welcome to the Jungle”? He’s in there on a Saturday morning with his friend Aisea, behind the closed door, singing, “You are a very sexy guuurl / You’re very haahd to pleeez . . . .” Pleeez is right. He’s too young for that crap.

Lydia, like most sensible women I know, doesn’t care much for the hard stuff. She likes “Spoonman,” maybe a little Led Zeppelin. But even with Led, her favorite song is the synth-friendly “All My Love.” (Not to be confused with “Whole Lotta Love,” a song you have to be over 21 to listen to. Walk through the beaded curtain at the video store sometime—they’ll play it for you.) She doesn’t remember the names of bands or songs; she has no truck with that kind of triviality. She knows what she likes, and she waits till we play it. And then she’ll want us to play it till the button breaks.

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