Learning to Let Go
Earlier this week, Beernut discovered that he could receive FM stations on his MP3 player. Truth-be-told, when he excitedly shared this information, I assumed he’d be listening to NPR. A reasonable assumption given that as his age I was listening to the likes of Michael Jackson (the one who was born white.), Ira Fistell, “Religion on the Line” with Carole Hemingway, and the Ken and Bob Company (remember EGBOK?). Yes, I was a committed KABC talk radio junkie as an elementary school student.
No, Beernut has discovered 97.1 AMP Radio — a station geared for teens and yound adults. Not a station meant for tweens. And yet I know that his peers are listening to this “music.” So much sets Beernut apart from his peer group (thank you, Asperger’s) and I don’t want to my own misgivings to make that gap any wider.
Against my better judgement, I put on the station.
It was that third song that finally got to me.
Call Me Mr. Flintstone,
I Can Make Your Bed Rock (oooh..)
FrumeSarah: “Beernut, I really don’t think that this music is appropriate?”
Beernut: “Why not?”
FS: “Well, it has some subjects that just aren’t appropriate for someone your age.”
B: “What sort of subjects?”
FS: “Subjects like sex. For example.”
B: “Oh Mom.”
Several moments pass…
FS: “Hey Beernut, do you even know what sex it?”
B: (eyes rolling) “Of course. It’s about gender. As in ‘what sex are you.”, right?”
That’s right, Beernut.
So, dear readers, what say you? Leaving aside the fact that most of this “music” is pure dreck, what is the mom of a tween to do?