Which would have been just fine, except today was the day that I had seats for the Dan Zanes concert. Front row center, purchased last October, right when the went on sale. Four tickets — one for each member of the family.

If you haven’t heard of Dan Zanes, you should — as long as your kid isn’t pre-prepubescent. In fact, even if you don’t have kids at all, you’ll like Dan Zanes. He makes the coolest kid music. So cool, I have to admit, that neither of me kids (nor my husband) likes him very much.

Who knew? We’ve had his videos and CDs for years, listened to him on the kids channel on satellite radio, even saw him in concert once already and had a blast. For me, it was a given. Who wouldn’t want to go a Dan Zanes concert?

Annabelle, that’s who. When she protested that that’s music for babies and reminded me it was several years since the last time we saw Dan Zanes and she was just a little girl then, I pointed out (perhaps not very kindly) that she does still enjoy Sesame Street.

She stood her ground — and I stood mine. Damn it, we were going to have a good time. In a rare moment of complete parental agreement, Ray and I decided we’d all go. He was an exceedingly good sport; til we got there.

And when we got there, and took our front row seats, even I had to admit something:

The parents like this music better than the kids do.

Pretty much to a person. Maybe it was because I was focused on the audience rather than the music, but I didn’t see one happy looking kid. Annabelle was right — she was way older than most of the other kids. And the toddlers all looked the way my kids looked. Like they were just putting up with it.

“Where are the characters?” Sophie wanted to know, before she put her hands over her ears and left them there.

The parents, on the other hand, they were in heaven. And who can blame them? When you listen to bands with names like The Wiggles and Ralph’s World all day,  you can use a break in the form of truly good music — great voices, hip performers, a variety of instruments. They even brought in a teenaged Latin jazz band to accompany Dan Zanes (who plays the harmonica, the Jew Harp, and a variety of stringed instruments, accompanied by horns, drums and an upright bass) and the kids just looked bored.

I stand by my taste, and I adore Dan Zanes. I enjoyed watching him perform today, sort of. Sophie and I stayed in the front row (she thought maybe he’d invite her on stage, a pleasure apparently reserved only for the kid of the owner of Fairytale Brownies, which had provided the band with a case or two of treats) while Annabelle and Ray slunk away a few rows. When Sophie and I got up to go to the bathroom, Ray caught my eye.

“Let’s go,” he mouthed.

The show wasn’t even half over. Annabelle was doodling on her program. Sophie tugged my hand. Ray was halfway to the exit. A song ended, another began. “House Party”. One of my favorites. Hadn’t we had about a million dance parties in the kitchen to this one? Maybe, a million years ago.

Sophie broke away and followed Ray. I stopped for one last look, and felt something tug on my dress. It was Annabelle.

“Let’s dance, Mommy,” she said, taking my hand and swinging it. We stood side by side, watching the band. I looked around at the bored kids and the exuberant parents and smiled down at Annabelle. What a kid — little or not.

“Let’s go,” I said. She didn’t look back.

They were selling tee shirts in the lobby. “Anyone want one?” I asked halfheartedly.

“Let’s not memorialize this day,” Ray said.

I know I’ll never forget it.

“What?! Blogging about childrens music?!” one of my colleagues (a childless one) asked, as I announced I was headed out to do an interview (a rare occurence in my job, these days; mostly I edit other writers’ stories, after they’ve gone out and done the interviews).

Actually, as Stefan Shepherd, creator and author of Zooglobble, explained over Asian fusion, the kid music thing is downright passe at this point. I figured, since I’m so into it.

I was a little nervous about meeting Shepherd. “How’d you hear about me?” he emailed back when I found him. “I”m much bigger outside of Phoenix.”

Here we go, I thought. A huge snob. A Brooklyn type, slumming in Phoenix. Actually, Stefan was all but the opposite — the guy works at the state’s Joint Legislative Budget Committee and randomly started writing reviews of kid CDs for a local parenting group’s newsletter his wife was editing, several years ago. He liked it, so he started a blog. (Zooglobble is a reference to a word in a Sandra Boynton song.) And in 2006, not everyone was starting a blog (like they were in 2008), so it stood out and took off.

I liked Stefan, mainly because he takes pains to not be snobby about childrens music. (And if you’re not intimately familiar with the genre, you’re chuckling right now, but trust me, there’s a lot of room for snobbery.) He even recommended a Raffi album as one of his top six. (I’ll save the rest for the story I need to write for New Times, which I’ll link to — wait with baited breath, people! It’s about the Wiggles!)

He doesn’t make money off the blog, per se, but he does have some fun. He’s the music guy for the Land of Nod catalogue (that gave him serious cred with me) and does some work for NPR, including on All Things Considered.

I came close but didn’t quite admit to him that I find my favorite kid music the same way I tend to find my favorite adult music: on comps. (With adult music it’s actually worse: soundtracks.) That’s really embarrassing. I know that because I learned my mixed tape (it was tapes back then, and if you haven’t read Rob Sheffield’s book Love is a Mix Tape, you must — immediately) etiquette from an ex-boyfriend in grad school. This guy was Israeli and okay, yes, I’ll stereotype: he was very sincere and committed to his convictions (see? I put it quite kindly), one of which was that when making a mixed tape, there are certain rules that must be followed.

I made the mistake of taping an album one day and presenting it to him. “I made you a tape!”  I said. Oh no, I didn’t, I was informed. I taped a tape. I didn’t make a tape. A mixed tape is made with forethought and love — one must consider each song individually, and consider them as a whole. Each must merge into the next seamlessly, each must have a purpose in both its music and words.

The guy was a total pain in the ass. I broke up with him as soon as I could (not easy, since we lived across the hall from one another, and the break up was delayed by the fact that the first Gulf War was on, and his family was at home in Tel Aviv, in gas masks) but I saved those tapes (til Ray “accidentally” threw them away — he swears to this day it was an accident) and I always think of this guy when I’m copying an album for a friend.

I do make a mix once in a while, always for the girls’ birthdays. But this year I felt guilty making Sophie’s, because most of the songs came off the “For the Kids” CD comps. I can’t help it. That music’s the best. If you want to complete your kid music library, you can go to Stefan’s blog and he has fabulous advice. Or go to amazon (don’t tell my indie book/record friends I said that) and buy all three “For the Kids” collections. That and some Beatles, and you’ll be set — with apologies to kid music bloggers and ex-boyfriends. OK, throw in some Dan Zanes. He’s the best kid-music-maker out there today — the Zooglobble guy and I wholeheartedly concurred.

Sophie’s comp has “For the Kids” music by Of Montreal and The Format, and I also tossed on Hotel Yorba by the White Stripes and Move It from Madagascar, two family favorites. The key to good kid music, Stefan Shepherd explains, is simply that it should be something you can listen to eight times between here and the grocery store.

Make that nine and I am in complete agreement.

“It’s April! Then May!”

I rolled over in the bed and followed the script.

“And what happens in May, Sophie?”

“MY BIRFDAY!!!!!!!!!!!”  

I have created a monster.

(Apologies to Sandra Boynton. I love her “Birthday Monsters” board book.)

I blinked and stretched, trying to wake up.

“Vanilla on the inside and chocolate on the outside!”

OK, so we’ve got the cake plan.

To be fair, this is of my doing, as you know if you’ve read this blog much (um, the name might be a giveaway). True, we’ve already got a theme for Annabelle’s party (and her birthday’s in JULY) and yesterday I did book the music guy for Sophie’s “pretend” slumber party.

But really, even I admit that things are getting out of hand. Sometime in the middle of the night, last night, I swear I woke up to the musical stylings of  Sophie — singing the birthday song.

And Ms. X confirms that the birthday mania has spilled into the classroom. Yesterday Sophie told Anyssa to buy her Littlest Pet Shop characters for her birthday. And, Ms. X added, she’s been telling certain kids they can’t come to her party.

Ooooh. Not cool.

“Tell her the entire class will be invited!” I told Ms. X. Oh yes, she said, she has been. But, she reports, Sophie says she doesn’t want Aiden to come because Shawn and Aiden argue all the time.

We both had to admit that’s sort of sweet. But everyone in the class will be invited. And then some. (This could be a logistical nightmare, I realize. Our house is not that big.)

Hey, you only turn 6 once.

And now for some spring fashions. Speaking of Aiden from Sophie’s class, yesterday we were driving to school and the topic of Aiden’s new haircut came up. The kid showed up this week with a full-on mohawk — head shaved completely except for a dinosaur-esque ridge on top.

“What do you think of Aiden’s mohawk, Sophie?” I asked, trying not to let my own position show.

The answer came back loud and clear.

“I don’t like it.”

Hmmph. Very strong in her opinions. I’m finding that more and more when it’s time to get dressed in the morning. Annabelle will pretty much wear whatever you toss at her (unless it’s a special occasion or the fashion bug bites extra hard) but Sophie wants choices and more and more, she rejects the offerings.

The good news is that we have a near-unlimited supply of clothes, particularly for her since she’s smaller. I’m not sure where some of this stuff originated, like the Old Navy “Queen Bee” tee shirt. It’s absolultely adorable, but no way could I ever have put Annabelle in it. When Sophie pulls the Mean Girl thing, everyone thinks it’s cute; she has an excuse. (Although the way this birthday thing is going, I might have to hide the tee shirt.) Not so much with the other girls, which does make me wonder who handed this shirt down — and did their daughter wear it much?

Then there are shoes. Sophie’s getting pickier there, too. The other day we realized that Annabelle’s old brown Converse fit her. So the girls were shoe twins at school.

We were all delighted and I got a little nostalgic. Years ago, when Sophie first had orthotics and I was fighting the clunky white sneaker look, my dear friend Trish suggested Converse.

“Brilliant!” I yelled, right there in the middle of the Nordstrom shoe department, and we procured a pair in hot pink — only to have Dorcas the Physical Therapist reject them as unsteady.

The brown fit nicely. (Hopefully they’ll fit with the new orthotics that are now ready to be fitted — Dorcas convinced the guy to make the shoe inserts.)

So I’ve created a birthday monster and a fashion monster and, I realized this morning, a book monster.

I was getting Sophie out of the car seat when I noticed blood on her lip. Turns out it was coming from her thumb. She’d managed to give herself two paper cuts, just on the way to school, from a “Snow White” book she grabbed on her way out the door.

She got a little blood on her favorite Dan Zanes tee shirt before I could stop her from wiping her fingers on it, then we stopped at the nurse’s office and laid in a supply of Band Aids before it was time for drop off.

A long, monstery morning.

It’s the stuff you had children for — this guy’s the Dan Zanes of kid books, the Yo Gabba Gabba (well, sort of) of baby lit. Todd Parr with an edge.

I bought the girls (okay, I bought it for myself but I’ll share) Brown’s latest, “Soup for Breakfast,” and I was flipping through it yesterday and was delighted to see a poem entitled “Oilcloth Tablecloth”.

I’m all about the oilcloth tablecloth, as any observant GIAPH reader knows. (Buy your own: my favorite site for oilcloth is http://mendels.com/fabrics10.shtml.) My dining room table serves as the backdrop of many of the poor quality photos I take and post, and my tablecloth collection has garnered more than a few comments from certain quarters. (I’m always tickled to hear complaints about the oilcloth patterns, which I slather with the unabashed love reserved for things like vintage Japanese celluloid and carnival chalk — acquired tastes, to be sure.)

I love that Calef Brown appreciates oilcloth, too. With no further ado (since I’ve been told by an expert that my blog entries are too long) here is Calef Brown’s own ode to the OT, followed by a particularly bad photo that will give you an idea of his cool imagery: 

OILCLOTH TABLECLOTH

Oilcloth Tablecloth

Keeps the table dry,

Despite the many soda spills

and coffee gone awry.

If someone sloshes orange juice,

or baby starts to cry,

Oilcloth Tablecloth

keeps the table dry.