Ms. Plum is musically challenged. I started noticing this disturbing trend a few weeks ago while shopping with her. She began to slow jam to Aaron Neville. At the time I was desperate to believe she was being ironic. But as time has passed, it is becoming clear that my perfect baby has no clear understanding of what good music is and isn't. A few days ago she was dropping it like it was hot to the worst cover in the history of music. And then while eating at Wendy's she began to dance to Steve Winwood. Steve Friggin Winwood. This is paralyzing me. Paralyzing me. This is obviously my fault. I blame the two years I stopped listening to Metallica and fell in love with The New Kids on the Block. Or maybe it's because of my dirty Spice Girls secret?  She is clearly paying for my musical sins.

She is a delicate dancer. She twists her wrists when she is really into a song and kicks her feet. She even hums along and bobs her head. She only pulls out her moves for the worst of the worst. It's horrfying. But I must love her through this. Because I promised to love her for whoever she is and whoever she becomes. I guess I never realized that also meant if she had awful taste in music. But it does. I am not confident enough in my mothering skills to believe I will be successful in curing her of this. So I will try my hardest to expose her to more acceptable music while I come to terms with the fact that it may not work. And that I might be buying her tickets to see the future Debbie Gibson for her 6th birthday.

But for the love of Christmas, my darling girl, please please please come dance with me to the Pixies.

PS: Mama will always love you anyway, Plum. Even if you love Steve Winwood. You couldn't stay perfect forever.