A dagger, I tell ya. Penny’s words were a dagger to my heart. A flaming dagger. Doused in motor oil. Driven into me by a tyrannosaurus rex. That then bit off my head. And stepped on me.
I was driving the kids home from school. The eternal radio debate raged on. It becomes particularly contentious if I can’t find either “Thrift Shop” or “Gangham Style” somewhere on the dial.
Anyway, we could find nothing amenable to both parties. So they threw out the suggestion of a CD. OK, fine. But which one?
The debate flamed right back up. I thought we’d have a resolution when Rigby tossed out the suggestion of The Beatles.
Boy, was I wrong.
“I don’t like The Beatles,” Penny replied.
I’m pretty sure my mouth dropped. Like, literally.
“But sweetie. You used to love The Beatles. Don’t you like your song?”
Quick tangent: A few of you may have noticed my daughter’s name sounds familiar. A few of you might even know where it comes from. So, yes, I am a fan, and that song is what I mean by “her song.” Anyway, back to Penny’s reply:
“Well, I DO like my song, kind of ... well, actually, Daddy?”
“I hate my song, too. I hate The Beatles. Yeah, I just hate The Beatles.”
No matter how mad I get as a parent, I am generally able to contain my emotions enough so the fact I love my kids unconditionally is never lost on them. This was not one of those occasions.
“WHAT?! What do you MEAN you don’t like The Beatles? You got your name from them!”
“I love The Beatles,” Rigby chimed in. That’s my boy.
“Well,” Penny countered, “they’re just not that good. I want music I can dance to. They’re bad. Just bad.”