matching tracksuits

The first album I ever bought is one I'm almost loathe to admit to now. The second, less so: Boston's Third Stage. I was in seventh or eighth grade when I bought those albums, and it was no small feat, for my father had made a rule that he had to investigate and approve any music purchase I made. At the time, I thought it was ridiculous. As a father myself, now I understand.

Recently, L made a discovery: portable music is highly convenient. She's been taking my iPod about, listening to whatever she finds on there that strikes her fancy. That's almost fine: most of my music I'd willingly play for her, but there is this and that which I don't think she's quite ready for. Fortunately, she was more drawn to jazz than anything else. Ben Webster's "Late Date" was a particular favorite.

Still, there's always the risk of accidental discovery of something she's not quite ready for. So when L suggested she buy her own MP3 player with the money she's saved up, it seemed a good idea.

It came Wednesday, and I loaded it up with Ben Webster, Sonny Stitts, Buena Vista Social Club, Beatles, and similar selections, and K bought her the Frozen soundtrack as a first album.

And yet, as I sit here listening to the newest John Mayer on Spotify, I realize that by the time she'll be the age I was when I first bought my first album, iPods will even seem old-school. All music available all the time.

What will she listen to?

I'm not so much worried about what she'll listen to as I am the music her potential suitors will be drawn to. A boy who listens to misogynistic rap will likely be somewhat affected by it -- at the very least, his disregard for what the man is actually saying will be worrying. Of course with the prevalence of free online porn, what the young man might be listening to might be of less concern than what he's streaming on his phone.

All of this flashed in my thoughts as I saw L dancing about, singing along as best she could to a song she barely knows, and I thought that perhaps Babcia is right: the nineteenth century was so much better...

For a while, it was Barbie. All Barbie, all the time. Barbie Volkswagen Beetle. Barbie bike. Barbie camper. One birthday, she got five, six Barbies, perhaps more. Like I said, all Barbie. So intense was her obsession that she even saved up all the money she got from grandparents and parents to buy a Barbie bike.

But interests change. Girls grow up. And soon enough the Girl informed us that we could pack away the Barbie camper. "I never play with it," she explained. It sat at the base of her bed, taking up valuable space. So back in the box -- honestly, it ever left, for the box was its garage -- and down to the basement.

Eventually, all the Barbies and paraphernalia ended up downstairs.

Fast forward a few months. Our church's annual rummage sale -- An Angel's Attic it's called -- was approaching, and K was deciding what to sell. The subject of toys came up.

"You can sell all my Barbie stuff," the Girl suggested casually one evening. There was of course the question of who gets the proceeds, for the church gets thirty percent of donated goods while seventy percent goes back to the owner.

Once it became clear that she would get some of the money, she was all for it. And so this morning, while the Girl was off with a friend at the local science center, K gathered all the Barbie plastic and a number of other items and arranged them on the bed.

"Go up and see if you're okay with selling everything on the bed," K instructed when the Girl when she arrived home. She bounded up the stairs and returned shortly.

"Yes, that's fine."

But not so fine with me: as expected, she's growing up faster than I was ever prepared to accept.