Good, Clean Rap and an Embarrassment of Riches

It was last Saturday morning. My older boy was standing in front of our stereo. He was intently listening to some really cool rap music that I had down-loaded the day before. If you've read my previous posts than you know that one of my strategies for producing hip (socially speaking) children is introducing them to cool music. There is no music cooler than cool rap music. So, I was delighted. My son turned to me. "Daddy," he said in the excited voice that he uses when he's discovered something really interesting, "now I know why you like rap so much. It's awesome!!!" I was pleased to hear him speak these words. He has always liked rap music, but had never articulated his appreciation so eloquently. (At this point, I feel that an apology is order for my wife who doesn't share my enthusiasm for rap. Sorry, babe.) Along with my excitement, there came a little apprehension. While down-loading the songs, I had not been able to find the edited (or clean, as it appears in itunes) versions of most of the songs. It's alright, I thought, he won't pick up the inappropriate words for years. All worries regarding the new rap music left my consciousness at this point. It was nearly game time. We had to get our minds right.
When I say "we," I mean my older boy, younger boy and I. My wife was, unfortunately, working this morning so would be unable to attend the game. Another reason that WE needed to get our minds ready for the game is that both boys would be playing on my older son's team. I'll sum up the game quickly. It was, as always, super fun. I am not sure why I enjoy watching my boys play baseball so much, but boy do I. Our team lost, but it didn't matter at all. My boys, and I am saying this with a great degree of pride, were a combined 3-3 from the plate. My older boy hit a single and a double. (He easily could have stretched his double to a triple or even an inside the park home-run; it was that well-hit). And my younger son, and this is possibly more impressive than the work by his more experienced, harder-hitting brother, legged out a well-hit single. Now, I would like to tell you that I handled my younger son's hit with a been-there, done-that style, but I can't. I stood in the entrance to the dug-out leaping up and down with my hands raised in triumph. As dorky as I undoubtedly looked, my younger son was beaming. It was worth it.
Later that night, we were eating dinner with friends, discussing the baseball game (our friends' son is on the team, as well). The reason, we decided, that baseball is such an excellent forum for youth sports is this. It is, in a lot of ways, a very individual sport. One can appreciate, just to take a random example, my older boy's masterful handling of a ground ball, his expertly turning to second to get the force-out, and ignore the second basement who was playing in the dirt. Similarly, one could ignore the players who struck-out before and after my younger son's single. The point is the team can not be performing at an optimal level, but the individual child can still excel.
But the baseball game was just the beginning of what would be a treasure trove of athletic activities during the weekend. We arrived home from the game and rested? no, cleaned ourselves? no, ate? no again. We arrived home and went out back to play basketball. Now, everyone should now have the impression that we are a very tough, hard-nosed family when it comes to sports. But just to further emphasize this point, we all played basketball shirtless. That's right. One father and two sons sans shirts. We played for, and I am not joking here (sadly), almost two hours. During this time, I realized a depressing thing. My older son is not that far away from beating me even if I really try. Now, I started to beat my father in basketball at the age of eleven. I was always sure that I could hold my son off, easily, until he was fifteen or sixteen. It is time to, perhaps, rethink this as he, an eight year-old, has some serious skills. Serious skills, indeed, that are often put to excellent use. Perhaps my favorite moment of the afternoon came when, after I had gone inside for a quick drink, I came out to find my older boy schooling my younger son on basketball technique (at my younger son's request; awesome). My older boy's advice was sound too. Establish your outside shot. Then use a pump-fake and drive to the basket. Picture me weeping tears of joy. All is right with the world, and it is not yet noon.
One negative of the basketball experience involves my younger son. He loves to play, but is too small, yet to reach a ten foot basket. Our basket is supposed to be adjustable, but it doesn't operate properly so my youngest is relegated to a tiny hoop. It won't be long, however (probably sometime this summer) that he will be able to reach the bigger hoop. That will represent paradise-found.
After the basketball, and I know how crazy this sounds and is, we went to our across-the-street neighbors' house. They have a paddle-ball (picture tennis with paddles on a half-sized tennis court) in their back-yard. My boys and I love to play there, and as our neighbors' boys have graduated college (no longer live at home) the court is always free. Anyhow, this was a very exciting event because we can all participate. At one point, I moved off to the side as my boys played against each other. With the pride of a job well-done, I watched my younger son's perfect follow through on his forehand only to be equally pleased with my older boy's backhand form.
Life was going pretty smoothly at this point. A wonderful morning filled with sunny skies, a great baseball game, fun basketball, paddle tennis and athletic prowess displayed by both boys. I became a little alarmed. Too much was going right. Some challenge was bound to appear and, soon, it did.
We went home after an hour of playing paddle tennis. I decided to take a shower. I turned on the water, and my older boy ran in with a smile. "Daddy," he said breathless with excitement, "guess what Snoop Dogg just said?" Oh, no, I thought. "What?" I asked preparing for the worst. "Big Booty!!!!" he exclaimed with glee, "he said BIG BOOTY." I froze. How to respond appropriately to this situation? "It's okay, though," my son said, "he was just joking. Snoop wouldn't want to hurt anyone's feelings." "You're right," I answered, "Snoop tries very hard not to hurt anyone's feelings." As I took my shower, I thought, that didn't go too bad. Big Booty!!??!!!?? Of all the bad words he could have heard, that's really light weight. My wife didn't think so. She came home while I was in the shower. My son greeted her with, "Mom, I love Snoop Dogg. [Just what any tired mother wants to hear]. And he said 'BIG BOOTY.'" My wife opened our bathroom door. "We have to do something about these new rap songs, she said. They're all marked 'explicit.'" "I'll go on i-tunes later," I said, "and try to find the edited versions."
I finished my shower and got dressed. It was time to go to our friends' house for dinner. Maybe all this rap mania will die down, I was hoping. Perhaps my son has already lost interest.
I went into the garage to join my family for our drive to our friends' house. "Snoo-oop, Snoo-oop," my son chanted. He was referring to Snoop Dogg. GULP. "Drop it like it's hot, Drop it like it's hot," my older boy began to rap. Time for me to find some edited songs and maybe encourage my son to listen to opera. Puccini rarely has words deleted from his songs when they play on radio.
After dinner, I went on i-tunes and re-downloaded all the songs, but made sure to download the 'clean' or edited version. Crisis averted. I had found some good, clean rap for my boys. They could still benefit from the cool music (in terms of making them cooler). But the rap my boys heard would be as non-offensive as possible.