And Of Course Harry The Horse Who Dances The Waltz

My daughter and I share some eerie similarities. She’s four months shy of her third birthday and I’ve noticed some of the very same patterns that I displayed when I was her age: a fascination of water towers, a perverse sense of humor, and an obsession with music.
The boy, who’ll be seven in four months himself, is more of a sensitive cat with more of a “help me with this level of Mario Bros” kind of attitude. He too has an attraction for music, but he’s more of a ham and likes putting on a little show for everyone.
And while they’re both social animals, the girl does enjoy going up to her room alone sitting at her desk and playing music.
Unfortunately for me, her music consists of two cds: the aforementioned original cast to Hairspray, a children’s cd with a bunch of kiddy songs like “The Itsy Bitsy Spider,” and a substantial children’s playlist in both my and my wife’s IPod.
There is no “Itsy Bitsy Spider” on those, but there is a couple of Laurie Berkner songs, a few tracks from Yo Gabba Gabba and-gulp-a Hanna Montana song, or as the baby describes it “Hantana.”
Even though it was my credit card used to buy that Miley Cyrus gem, I’m still trying to assert my influence with the other tracks on the playlist and with a recent even spurred by my own memories as a child.
Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band was in constant rotation in my 3-year-old bedroom, along with Jesus Christ Superstar and the Original Case Recording of Hair. My folks should have probably hidden both from me as Hair is way inappropriate for a three-year old (even though they don’t know about cunnilingus or fellatio) and Superstar just for the fact that the 39 lashes part freaked my shit.

But Sgt. Pepper’s?
Hell, I practically learned how to talk with that album.
Thanks to last year’s remasters, I now have two cd copies of Sgt. Pepper’s, so what better time than to give my daughter her very own copy of the album just like my parent’s did for me. The difference is that I really think my folks used music as a way to not have to deal with me whereas I’m using it as a way to turn my kinds into music obsessive weirdoes.
After all, it’s so much easier to walk around with a chip on your shoulder because of a Smiths’ song instead of any real life event.
I give her the disc and she looks at the cover.
“Is this yours, Daddy?” she asks inquisitively.
“Yes, but you can have it now.”
“Here you go, Daddy.” she says, trying to hand the disc back to me. She doesn’t understand what a rare event it is to have me give a part of my collection to someone.
After she figures out that she can keep my 1987 copy of Sgt. Pepper’s, she goes to her room to give it a spin. I hear her through the baby monitor the familiar words “It was twenty years ago today” and smile, thinking that I have done something meaningful.
Suddenly, before you can say “Billy Shears,” the song stops and I hear her fumbling with the cd player. She runs back into my bedroom and tries to give the disc back to me.
“Here you go, Daddy.” she offers. “I don’t like the Beatle bugs.”
I plead with her, explaining that there is more than one track to listen to. I tell her that “For The Benefit Of Mister Kite” is about a fun circus, suggest that the sitar in “Within Without You” is actually a kitty cat singing, and remind her that Ethan thinks “When I’m Sixty-Four” is a great song.
“I don’t like the Beatle bugs!” she repeats again, growing frustrated that I’m not taking her criticism seriously.
Finally, we compromise. I suggest that she keeps Sgt Pepper’s because “One day, you might like it.” I put it under her other two cds so that it doesn’t distract her from her true favorites and within moments I hear the familiar refrain “Good morning, Baltimore!” as she spins the Hairspray soundtrack for the millionth time.
At least I know that a splendid time is guaranteed for all when she’s ready for it.