My Sensitive Ponytail kid is more rock-and-roll than your kid

So, D and I are going to see my parents in a few weeks. At first, it was just going to be me, but then my mother called and said she would pay for his ticket if I would bring him. I said sure, but asked why, which made me feel like an ass— 1) for being too cheap to bring him in the first place and 2) Why ask why? Who wouldn't want to see this amazing kid?).

She said Nana is fading or not doing well or very frail or one of the various other euphemisms for Might Be Dying, which pretty much shoved the hot poker of guilt right up the ol' address. I haven't called Nana in a couple of weeks, and her Christmas present is still sitting on the floor of the Chief (and I'm sure the "winter vanilla" and "pomegranate cider" scents I got will be incredibly festive in APRIL). Also, I have worked so hard to get her and D to fall in love, and now I'm being all Mother Capulet and keeping them apart when, for a mere $635, I could exponentially fan the flames of their mutual admiration. [cue Reunited, courtesy of Peaches and Herb]. So we are going.

It will be interesting, I think, to see this child interact with Nana at this point, as he is becoming quite the sensitive-ponytail type. Par exemplo, he is teaching me to play MarioKart on the Wii, and I—how to say—royally SUCK at almost every aspect of the video game genre. He is amazingly supportive, however; after I came in 6^th (out of 12!! Me!) in one of my first races—an event which would have been devastating, had it happened to him—he was very kind. He patted me on the back and said, "That was really good, mom!" He hesitated a moment and then said, "You know, most people don't think 6^th is a good place, but I think it's really good for your first time." He is a gracious person indeed.

However, I will say his sensitivity is almost overwhelming sometimes; I may have mentioned his reluctance to throw ANYTHING away; For instance, since at least TEN of his stuffed animals sleep in the bed with him, I tried most naively to cull some of the herd that had been relegated to Not on the Bed status. The look of horror on his face suggested this modest proposal was akin to asking which one of his children he'd like to beat and starve to death.

But it's not just stuffed animals—it's dried-out markers, stale snacks, and every single one of the 4,567, 092 worksheets he brings home from school every day. The other day, he wouldn't let me throw away a receipt, and went so far as to name it—he dubbed it "Reciept-y" (I didn't say it was an inventive name, but to be fair, he had to come up with it on the fly). Best I can tell, the act of naming said receipt was done in order to shame me for the very idea of committing payment-slip genocide. Throwing something away that had a name was clear evidence of a dead, desiccated soul.

Lest you think he is a six-year-old pantywaist, however, I can assure you that he more than asserted his manly awesomeness weekend before last. It was a moment in which my heart overflowed with piercing parental pride. I mean, some parents long for their child's graduation; some wait impatiently for their offspring's nuptials, and some hang on to the dream of their spawn having ankle-biters if their own. This was a comparative milestone moment for me.

The scene: we are backing out of the driveway on our way to Target, and Owl City (shut up) is playing on the stereo. He asks who it is that's singing, and I tell him.

He said, "Hey, mom, you know who's a really good singer? This guy named Steven…uh…Steven, um…"

I held my breath for a moment and then, very coolly and calmly said "Tyler? Steven Tyler?"

"YES!" he said, and then asked which band was Mr. Tyler in again?

I took a deep breath and said "Aerosmith?" and waited for the exasperated sigh and the "no, mama, no."

To my extraordinary glee, however, he said "Oh yeah!! That's it! They are AWESOME!"

I felt my eyes tear a little as I quavered, "Really? What Aerosmith song do you know?"

He said "Uh, it's about dreams."

"You mean Dream On?"

"YEAH! AAAWESOME," he shrieked.

I cannot tell you how proud I was. To have my child tell me that he likes one of the Greatest Rock Bands of All Time and one which features My Teenage Rockstar Crush, no less, was further evidence that there is a God, and He is clearly ready to rock.

At Target, I strode to the back of the store and peered through their paltry CD selection, only to find that between AC/DC and Air Supply, there was…nothing—not even a divider with "Aerosmith" on it to indicate that by some neglectful oversight on their part, they had just temporarily run out of The Awesome. To find that there was a section for Air Supply was bad enough; to find it and no Aerosmith was beyond the pale.

I marched up to the department's Helpful Youth and gently explained that I needed to find the endcap they must have dedicated to The Band that Brought You "Sweet Emotion," since there was a clear void in the mainstream music section. After squinting at a book of barcodes for several million minutes, he gamboled over to an island kiosk and began hunting there. I assured him I had looked there and that it seemed to only feature crap like Miley Cyrus and Kid Rock and other clearly inferior musical acts. Lo and behold, though, he did find a greatest hits kind of thing which contained the necessities: the aforementioned "Dream On" and "Sweet Emotion," in addition to "Love in an Elevator" and "Walk This Way" featuring Run-DMC.

So then, since we are a G-rated-family-show kind of Party People, we got Trolli sour gummi worms and Butterfingers and sat in the car and rocked out, though D insisted that "that isn't Steven Tyler singing" until we reached the requisite screeching terminal chorus of "Dream On." At that, he smiled triumphantly and said, "Now, THAT'S Steven Tyler."

It is a good thing one cannot cry and eat a Butterfinger at the same time.