They were the words I’d hoped to never hear from my little girl.

“Daddy,” said 4-year-old Violet, “I want to see ‘Hannah Montana.’”

“Fine, honey,” I replied. “But first, why don’t you go into the kitchen and get the biggest knife you can find and just jab it into my heart? Could you do that, sweetie? And twist it around real good and then pull it out of my chest and let me see it beat before I drop dead? You’ve killed your daddy, honey. Are you happy? Are you?”

No, I didn’t say that. I dutifully went with her to the computer where we went to the Disney site and clicked on the “Hannah Montana” link. Thankfully, she got bored quickly and was off to wreak her usual havoc.

But the grim message was undeniable. My children are becoming aware of pop culture and are going to start making their own choices.

Malcolm, who’s 6, already has come home from school singing “All Star” and has called “Who Let the Dogs Out” his favorite song. When he was a baby, I’d play him Louis Prima, Jimmy Reed, Jerry Garcia, Schubert. This is the thanks I get.
But I’m not giving up. We listen to “Underground Garage” on XM Sirius on the way to school in the morning. Monday we heard Small Faces, The Nazz, The Ramones and the Rolling Stones. Surely some of it seeped into their subconscious.

And one day Violet will favor Sheena over Hannah.

I’m counting on it.