It makes me a huge horrible cliche, and basically like every other father in the history of mankind, but I have recently discovered that nothing brings me more joy than the second-hand embarrassment my nearly teenaged son feels when I endeavor to use the language of the youths. I know some of it because there are a few youths who work here, so when a cool song from Billie Eilish comes on the Alexa, I’ll be like, “That song slaps!” and then my son will crawl inside of himself and die.
The joy it brings! Having children will rob you of your money, your freedom, and your youth, but it is worth it for that. I wish my son could stay at this age forever because if I could, I would turn making my kid cringe into a full-time occupation. It would be a banger of a job. (It is my understanding, by the way, that Billie Eilish is far too popular to be cool these days, an opinion of which my teenage self would approve!)
Anyway, that’s a very Dad thing. Here’s a very Mom thing.
I don’t care for Dad rock, or at least, I didn’t think I cared for Dad rock until the musicians I grew up with became Dads, and then their music started being considered “Dad Rock.” It feels very wrong to me that Ben Folds or Wilco or The National might be considered “Dad Rock” these days, but I will accept it under the condition that we all agree that Maggie Rogers started playing Mom Rock out of the womb and that Kelly Clarkson singing “Hold On” with Wilson Phillips is the most mom thing of the 20th Century. I’ve never wanted to wear Mom jeans more than I do at this moment.
p.s. We don’t talk about how great it is that Chyna Phillips and William Baldwin have been married for 25 years.