Timeout New York Kids

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Bad mommy

My daughter had no idea who Britney was, but that didn't make her happier.

Right after September 11, the passengers on my M14 bus were more mute and blank-faced than usual. Rather than reading or murmuring into their phones, they stared out the windows at the missing posters attached to every available surface.

Abruptly, the silence was broken: “I’m gonna rouge my knees and roll my stockings down… and all that jazz!” Every head turned in my direction.

“Start the car, I know a whoopee spot where the gin is cold but the piana’s HOT.”

No, Bebe Neuwirth was not on board. Rather, it was my five-year-old daughter, who had decided to serenade the somber crowd. I was on the receiving end of dozens of raised eyebrows and “Do something” stares. But before I could shush her, a grandmotherly type came to my rescue. “A singing child is a happy child,” she declared.

Which is how I’ve always felt about music. Doesn’t matter what you’re singing or how off-key it comes out, as long as you’re part of the choir. During the Chicklet’s formative years, the music she heard was what I liked: Broadway show tunes, ’70s rock, ’80s pop, anything by Bruce Springsteen. In the car, if there was no CD handy, we’d click on a classic-rock or reggae station.

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