Last weekend we took the baby to his first outdoor concert. The occasion was a free festival for kids, and although all of the main acts were definitely kid-friendly, only one band–the Sippycups–specialized in music geared directly to kids. This got us talking about the kinds of music we grew up with (me: Jerry Jeff Walker and Kenny Rogers; him: the Rolling Stones and the Who), and how much more memorable and formative that “real” music was compared to the tapes (and records!) full of goofy, sugarcoated renderings of those same-old, age-old nursery rhymes we all know. (Don’t get me wrong; the “Itsy Bitsy Spider” forever holds a piece of my heart, poor thing, but you have to admit that “Yellow Submarine” is far more provocative no matter your age.)
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We’re about to embark on a grand parenting adventure my own folks didn’t dare attempt until I was twelve: flying with a child in tow. There must have been some deep-seated fear behind their having kept the family earthbound for a dozen years, but I don’t know what it was, and the fact that I’m not the least bit panicked about flying with my own kid in a few days makes me think I’m missing something. Tell me the truth: Is this going to suck?
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