Trash talkin' with the best of em

There was a time in my life I used to play special music for the kids. I had CDs by kid oriented musicians that even a music fan could tolerate. Big Dog and Little Dog went to their first concert way back when Little Dog was a wee baby, still napping in a sling as Ralph Covert rocked the Moore Theatre. Well, rocked it as much as a kid rock band could rock. Big Dog used to shout the alphabet with Jam Toast and learned all about conifers from They Might Be Giants. Over time I just stopped with that. Partly because it just didn't fit anymore, Big Dog started to really like the music I listened to, and partly because, well, I just got tired of it. There are only so many songs about pet dogs and monkeys up in a tree any adult woman can take.
Now we listen to what I like. And lately I've been on a bit of a kick with The Clash. I am proud to report that the boys seem to enjoy it just as much as I do. Big Dog strums his imaginary guitar and nods his head to the beat, while Little Dog slams away at his imaginary drum set, somewhat inexplicably placed above his head. My heart swells with maternal pride as they rock out with their best "bad attitude" faces on.

"What do you think, mama?" asked Little Dog, as we drove to school the other morning.
"About what?" I asked, wondering if he was looking for a critique of his drumming or if he had something else in mind.
"I think he should stay. What do you think?"
I grinned, he was listening to the lyrics. Why wouldn't he be. And why wouldn't he want an answer?
"Well, if he goes there will be trouble," I pointed out.
"So he should stay!"
"But if he stays it will be double!" I remind him.
"Yeah, but I think he should stay." Apparently he has a taste for danger, my little man.
For the rest of the song, and every time since, he shouts an answer to Mick Jones with increasing annoyance in his voice. "I told you, you should stay!" or "I already told you to STAY!"
How's that for my little badass. He makes a mama proud.