I wouldn’t say that I hate jazz, but I kind of hate jazz. There are songs here and there and some artists that I appreciate, but as a whole, it may be my least favorite style of music. I know, I know, cultural beat, blah blah.
But it just doesn’t do it for me.
My husband, on the other hand, will tell you unapologetically that he hates it, in all forms and venues. Hates it.
This means that jazz is the one form of music that doesn’t make bedtime routine rotation.
A few nights ago, while we listened to Patsy Cline, Quinn asked why his kitties couldn’t go outside. I explain that although we live in the country, our house is close enough to the road for traffic to be a great danger.
He pondered that, then suggested we let them out to explore at night, when few cars had cause to drive our way.
“Night is more dangerous for kitties, Bud. They could tangle with a skunk or porcupine, or worse, a coyote or fisher.”
“What’s a fisher”
I explained the bizarre cross between a weasel and a bear, and that they are one of the most vicious animals in our area. But the physical description must have been too fantastical for his five-year-old mind to believe.
“That’s not real, Mama. There’s no such thing.”
“There is, Buddy. Uncle Jim had a kitty that was killed by a fisher a few years ago.”
Something about that made him decide that I was speaking the absolute truth.
So he did what he often does when confronted with things that scare him – he hid.
He jumped from beneath the covers and dove under the bed.
“Awww, Bud I didn’t mean to scare you. And our kitties aren’t in danger, because we keep them inside.”
“I don’t want to talk about it. I’m just going to hide here and think about listening to some smooth jazz.”
Jazz? Smooth jazz?
Whose kid is this?