“Dad, are you famous?” Silas, my eight-year-old, asked me the other day.
“No, not really,” I replied.
He was a little disappointed. Maybe even felt sorry for me. Because he then said with the utmost sincerity, “Well, maybe when you get better at music.”
I laughed, and told him yeah, maybe.
My kids don’t like my music. They call it “old timey.” They wish I played rock and roll or electronic, techno––anything that would be in a Sonic the Hedgehog video game or in the backdrop of a motocross movie.
The latest thing they enjoy doing is telling me how many more Spotify followers their favorite artists have than me.
What’s funny is, out of all the people I want to impress, I find my kids usually at the top of my list. Just a few weeks ago I cracked my rib falling off my mountain bike in front of them. And I used to let my oldest son win when we’d sprint in the backyard. Now he just wins.
Pretty much the only thing I can hold over them these days is my ability to drive a car, fix their bicycles, and eat vegetables without gagging.
But, honestly, I care less and less. Because they don’t care all that much whether I can impress them or not. Only that I’m around to watch them try to impress me. To listen to them talk about dirt bikes or Sonic the Hedgehog, lie beside them when they can’t sleep.
What do my kids think of my music? In short, they don’t think of it. And that’s all right by me. But I’m still gonna keep working on my Spotify numbers.