A few days ago, the kids and I were taking Robby home. I was driving my beloved “soccer mom” minivan. The children know the rules of the van—no throwing stuff, no screaming, no milk products, and no talking while I’m listening to the Foo Fighters.
After we hit the road, I turned on the radio and “All My Life” was about half-way through. Veronica lives to listen to her pop music in the car. I’m fine with that, but if my song is on then don’t even think about asking me to change the station.
Veronica immediately starts screaming from the back seat, “Please change the station to Kiss FM!”
|Ladies and gentlemen, the Foo Fighters|
I hear Jude’s little voice say, “Foo Fighters.”
Veronica was mad. She wanted her way so she began to scream, “Please change the station!”
In order to drown out her plea for pop, I turned the music up even louder. She got louder, too. So I turned the knob again and then started singing along. For those of you who have heard me sing, you realize that this is the worst punishment I could ever inflict on my children.
Later that night, Robby laughed about the entire scene. He seemed surprised by my reaction. I really hadn’t put much thought into the whole episode—it happens often and I always react the same.
I am generally pretty lax with my children and they know that. But music is a big deal to me and I refuse to let anyone ruin that for me. The “Foo Fighters rule” in the car is one of those unbreakable laws. It’s one of the few times when I draw a line in the sand and establish my boundaries with the children.
Music has always been a big deal to me. My sister and I inherited my mom’s old record player/stereo when I was about 9 years old. I would sit in our room for hours every day and listen to records and the radio. When I got older—maybe 11 or 12—I started putting together one of the most awesome cassette tape collections in town.
My sister and I would scour the flea markets in the summer looking for cheap bootlegs. I loved everything from Metallica to Milli Vanilli (gasp), but I never cared much for country. As the years progressed, my collection expanded. I had my stereo running all the time—even at night. I couldn’t sleep without music. I couldn’t focus without music. I couldn’t ride in the car without music.
When I was 16, I saved up my money and bought my first CD player from Radio Shack. The first CD I bought was The Cure’s Disintegration. “Pictures of You” never sounded so amazing.
My brother Luke, who is a brilliant musician, once told me that I was one of the biggest musical influences in his life—I was the first person he knew who owned a CD player and I always gave him my extra CDs when I needed to make room on my shelf for new ones.
I gave him Collective Soul, Pearl Jam, Nirvana, Green Day, and Stone Temple Pilots—he loved them as much as I did.
I loved good musicians and I loved terrible ones. I had a life-sized poster of Sebastian Bach from Skid Row on my closet door for about 8 months when I was a freshman in high school. I wanted to marry both of the Nelson twins when I was 15—I didn't think I could "Live Without Their Love and Affection."
I’ve been known to do a chest bump to Milli Vanilli and did a few fist pumps to Metallica—I now hate both groups and rightfully so—they disappoint me on a personal level. I spent the entire summer before my freshman year in college watching “Pure Country” and listening to George Strait—he almost turned me on to country (almost is the key word here).