Ever since my three-year-old Ellie was born, my head has been full of children's music. Shortly after her delivery, my brain became a wasteland of rhymes and silly lyrics, often accompanied by hand gestures. (This seemed to come at great expense to the knowledge and information that previously resided there).
I am not even apologetic about the fact that I have come to really like children's music. I know a lot of children's songs. Ellie also knows the words to quite a few songs. We've been to music classes led by folksy women with guitars. We have been attendees at a number of children's concerts. We listen to music at home. We listen to music in the car (so much so that on the rare occasions that I am without my two usual passengers, I often drive for ten minutes listening to the soundtrack to Aladdin before I realize I don't have to be).
My husband has quietly, but firmly objected to this inundation of children's music (ostensibly because he thinks kids can get the same benefits from the music we listen to, but also because he doesn't want to drive around listening to "Take me ridin' in the car, car . . . ").
As a result of his slow and steady campaign on this issue, something of a musical revolution is underway in our house. Ellie now seems to have a genuine preference for Bob Dylan ("Tangled Up in Blue" in particular) over our usual musical fare. She says, "Daddy, let's listen to Johnny Cash next. He's got good songs for tapping your knee." "Who sings 'Rock the Casbah?'" she asks. And under the category of things you don't expect to hear from your three-year-old, "Mom, can I get an iPod?" This morning, I overheard her singing to her baby doll, "Because you're mine, I walk the line."
Meanwhile, I hum "Three Little Monkeys Jumping on the Bed" quietly . . . to myself.