I’ve given up and tuned in. Tuned into the music of my kids. “High School Musical.” 1, 2 and 3. Troy, Gabriela and Sharpay.
It’s either embrace it or keep my hands pressed over my ears for 10, 12, 14 years, all the while muttering, “What’s that noise?”
No, I won’t do that. I won’t be a fogy. I won’t be too cool for school. I’ll get into it, embrace it and live it.
The kids dig it. They’ve got “HSM” CDs, DVDs, microphones, outfits and swimsuits. They dance to it, bop and jig and twist.
And invent. “Hey Dad, watch me,” my daughter says. “This is the backstroke.” And there she goes backstroking across the room and back again, followed by my son. Next comes the bum slide, the leapfrog and then the spinner.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“The basketball dance,” my daughter says. Dribble, dribble, dribble.
Soon I’m enjoying it, swaying to the music. My wife, too. Swaying and crooning out, “Cause you are the music in me.”
And I think, it isn’t all that bad to be tuned in. Or is it?