Hey, won'tcha play, another somebody done somebody wrong song

I was raised by diehard country music lovers. And I'm talking Old School--Loretta Lynn, Johnny Cash, Tanya Tucker and the like. My parents left the kitchen radio blaring the local country station during all waking hours, and their car stereos were locked onto the same frequency, so I got to hear...picking, fiddling, and twanging...pretty much every moment of every day. Let me tell you, there are not adequate words to describe how very, very much I. LOATHED. It. (Although I couldn't help snickering every time someone said the name "Conway Twitty". Sadly, that small measure of rebellious immaturity represented the sum total of my enjoyment.) As soon as I was old enough to have my own boombox, (yes, I realize I'm admitting to being practically prehistoric) I would shut the door of my room and listen to...absolutely anything else. How desperate was I to escape the "my girl done left me/my dog up and died, my truck broke down" genre? I played my Shawn Cassidy and Donnie and Marie albums over and over to drown it out. (That's right, you heard me: squeaky-clean, dorky pop for the pre-teen set. On vinyl. I did mention I'm a dinosaur, yeah?)

Eventually I moved out and gained the freedom to listen to any kind of tunes I darn well pleased. Thus followed the Alternative and Top 40 phases, with bands like the Smiths, the Violent Femmes, Depeche Mode, the Ramones, U2, Duran Duran, Huey Lewis and the News, and Bryan Adams in heavy rotation. Oh, and how could I forget the Hair Band era--Bon Jovi, Poison, Motley Crue, and other loud, metal...ish....groups. I also gained appreciation for some guys with longevity, you know, the ones that are now called "Classic Rock"--Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band, Boston, Tom Petty, Styx, REO Speedwagon, Journey. And for a brief while, I even mixed some country in there--gasp! But it was the modern version, the hip Keith Urban, Dixie Chicks, Tim McGraw, Martina McBride class of country crooners. (And I had nonnegotiable standards for my loyalty: nothing too sappy, no "crying in your beer" tunes, and the amount of drawwwwwlll had to be strictly under control.) But that was then, this is now...and these days, our household playlist includes a whole lotta...hmm, what do you call it? Urban Contemporary? Adult Mix? (Nevermind, that just sounds all kinds of wrong...) Anyway, our current taste runs to the Maroon 5/Pitbull/Bruno Mars/Bieber (shh! don't judge!) School of Rock.

So imagine my surprise (as I finally arrive at my actual point--feel free to cheer) when out of the clear blue one day Riley suddenly asked, "Mom, do you have any Kenny Chesney?" (In my head: What the?) Out loud: "Um...no, sweetie, but your aunt will probably lend us some cds to try out." When we saw my sister a few days later and informed her of Riley's new...interest...she helpfully handed over a stack of discs for his listening pleasure. Sure enough, he promptly holed up in his room to give the Greatest Hits a spin...on repeat. Being the fully supportive mother that I am, I even stopped him when he was about to skip over "She Thinks My Tractor's Sexy", and suggested he'd probably like it. (Yep, he did.) Next thing you know, he's wandering into my room singing "Big orange ball, sinkin' in the water. Toes in the sand, couldn't get much hotter..." Oh. My. Goodness. Apparently, he's a F-A-N.

Right now, I can't decide which part is the most entertaining--the fact that he already has memorized several songs; the adorable...ness of him belting them out (complete with my accentless Mid-Atlantic-bred son doing a spot-on imitation of Kenny's Tennessee twang); or the reaction of his brother any time he catches the beginning notes of a track. (In case you're wondering, that would include gagging, choking, falling on the ground pretending to perish from the agony of being exposed to such...heinous auditory torture? It's pretty melodramatic...and hilarious...) Who knows, maybe this represents a fad for Riley that will pass quickly into oblivion when he tires of his borrowed cds. Or perhaps I'll find myself requesting more selections from the Aunt Library. Of course I strongly encourage him to expand his musical horizons. However (did you hear that coming?) my only hope is that--Monday Night Football be darned--he never acquires a yearning for, say, Hank Williams Jr. (Shudder...) Or I just might have to join Derek in the Vehement Protest Dance...while covering my ears and la-la-la-ing. Fingers crossed it doesn't ever come to that...