This lovely post on Jezebel today about learning to love music, especially music your father or mother listened to, depressed me. My parents were strict when it came to…well, everything, but especially music and tv shows. All we listened to as a family were children’s albums or the oldies station. I remember hiding in a coat room during 4th grade to avoid a “which New Kid is the cutest” conversation, because I had no idea who the New Kids were. Once I did get my own radio, it was far too late for me to learn anything about “good” music. I listened to Top 40 stations, even while my closest friends got stoned to Radiohead. I have an intense hatred of Dave Matthews based entirely on my high school lacrosse team. Throw in a few years of musical theater and I’m completely hopeless. I too embarrassed by my bad taste to put a “what I’m listening to” application on my Facebook, and I never participate in conversations about shows, since admitting the best concert I’ve ever gone to was the George Strait Chevy Truck Country Music Fest makes people look at me like I have three heads. Yeah, did I mention the country music? And not the cool rockabilly stuff, the Brad Paisley-Lonestar-Sara Evans stuff.

In case you were thinking maybe E would be able to help out, let me assure you he cannot. He knows more words to “Rent” than I do and insists the “I don’t want you back” song is genius.

So unless my baby wants to listen to the “Anything Goes” soundtrack or Britney Spears’ greatest hits, I’m afraid he’s on his own when it comes to music. I’m not sure how kids develop their musical tastes, since I was never allowed to. I guess I’ll have to encourage Tiny E to hang out with the babies at the playground in the Ramones onesies, or maybe get that cd of Metallica songs turned into lullabies.  To prevent any irreversible harm, I plan to stick with the children’s tapes from my own childhood as long as I can, but as much as I love Raffi I don’t want this to happen to me.