Thwarting Taylor Swift

I like music. A lot. My collection is eclectic and vast. Tori Amos? Yep. Jimmy Buffet? More, please! Back Street Boys? Why not. Gustav Mahler? Oh yeah. Garth Brooks? Sure! Johnny Cash? He’s money. They Might Be Giants? They might be AMAZING! Show Tunes? Sweet! The Killers? The Cure? The Corrs? The Eagles? The Fray? The Beatles? The Smiths? The Who? You get the point. I didn’t expect to get a lesson in taste and variety from my preschooler.

When he was born, it was clear Finn loved music, it made him laugh. The laughing made him bounce. The bouncing made him toot. The tooting made him laugh. Circle of music, a silly, silly circle. When he fell for blue grass, I was delighted to learn I loved it, too. The rapid rhythms, the twanging banjos, the shrill ukuleles. We listened to classics, folk, updates, great stuff! Next, he decided Eric Clapton was it, banging guitars, slightly inappropriate lyrics, enticing tunes. For a potty training present, he wanted a guitar of his own. When he got his ukulele, at 2 ½, his concentration was intense and slightly disturbing. I mean, what kind of 2 year old has an attention span beyond 10 minutes? And how on earth has that little wooden thing made it more than a year without breaking? Is this normal? Okay, I didn’t think so.

But the trend took a disturbing turn. About two months ago, he asked me if I had any Hannah Montana. Who? I just misheard, right? “Hannah Montana!” he repeated, with a country twang. Oh, good gods. When I said no, he pressed, “What about Jonas Brothers?” Are you kidding me!?! I came home from work one Sunday night and he bounded to the door. “Guess what daddy bought me at Target?!” My soul eked out an out of tune “noooooo!” but my mommy voice was in perfect pitch. “What did you get, Sweetie?”

“Taylor Swift!”

It wasn’t so much a musician’s name as a battle cry, the lines were clearly drawn. Me and a country pop princess. She was armed with flowing blond hair, a huge guitar, and catchy tunes. I was armed with, well, limited control of the CD player, and a recently highlighted shoulder length bob. The clear favorite. But, how could I let him listen to that? How could I stop him? Go ahead. Try to tell your three year old they can’t listen to syrup pop. Seriously.

Blow drying my hair this morning, I heard the music coming from the kitchen. His voice bounced off the wood floors and echoed in the stairs, “you belong with meeeeeee, you belong with me.” When I rounded the corner, there he was rocking out a killer air guitar, complete with a ten-fingered attack. Nude. That’s right, folks. I’m raising the next Naked Cowboy.

“Where are your clothes?” I shouted above Ms. Swift, bearing in mind that my friends call me a “laid back mom.” Ha! In the midst of my shock, the song ended and Finn put down his imaginary guitar.

“Taylor Swift said that I belong to her,” he grinned. I did, too.

“Wow. Really?”

“Yeah, but I told her no,” he said.

“Why's that?”

“Because, I belong to youuuuuu, I belong to you!” he sang.

Take that, Swift!