dance, little sister, dance!

This morning, while I was drinking my coffee, Bryan yelled from the living room, "Hey, Trish, NPR is doing a feature on Mick Jagger."
The kids jumped up, dropping their trains and Little People on the floor, and went running across the kitchen. "Mick Jagger!" Alexa squealed. Dylan echoed this. As the radio played clips of the Stones and Jagger solo, the kids danced around maniacally (much like Mick). Dylan added his own favorite lyrics to the musical menage: "Don't you know the crime rate's goin' up up up up UP!"
Proud? Hmmmm, I'm not sure. Kindermusik it isn't. I can't say I don't feel a little twinge of mom-guilt when Dylan walks around the house rapping "Hit me, come git me" a la Red Hot Chili Peppers. But I do relish their interest in music. On Sunday morning, Dylan asked Bryan to play his guitar, then proceeded to join in with every auxiliary instrument he could find: Guatemalan drum, kiddie rattle, tambourine, harmonica, castanets. Alexa, wearing jeans and no shirt (we took off the shirt because she was eating applesauce and refuses to wear a bib), put her arms up and twirled around, head back and hair flowing, like she was at a Dead show.
This isn't to say that they have discriminating musical tastes. Lord knows, they're just as excited--if not more so--to hear the Wiggles as much as anything Mom and Dad listen to. But it is fun to hear Dylan singing along to Neil Finn or Bruce Springsteen or whatever else is in the CD player.
"It's no hangin' matter. It's no capital crime."
I guess, in the end, it's only rock-n-roll (and we like it).