It is my job — my singular task in this world now — to provide my child with food, shelter, safety and unconditional love. To give her all that is necessary to survive and thrive in this world. So when I woke up at 3:37 am a few nights ago — covered in sweat, with a raging headache and a cold, cold fear in my heart — I wasn’t about to ignore the cause of my concern.
What would I do if my daughter liked the Stones more than The Beatles?
I’ve struggled with this question for nearly a week. It weighs heavy on my mind.
And it’s a choice she will have to make on her own. I cannot help. When she is of the right age — I’d say around 8, maybe 7 (she’s shown signs of advanced musical tastes) — she will stop her iPod, take off her headphones and look over at me. “Baba, Aren’t the Stones just a really good cover band?”
“Yes they are princess. Yes they are. Now go get Rubber Soul from the top shelf in the library so we can hear how it was intended to be heard.”
