Not an Option
“How about We are the Champions?” he asks. “Loch, I’m a little tired of listening to Queen. Is there something else you’d like to hear?” I say, glancing at him in the rearview mirror. “How about Billy Idol?” he asks. “You got it,” I say, tuning to track one on the album and turning up the volume. I knew some day my son would start bossing me around, but I wasn’t prepared for it to happen before three. He sits back there in his car seat, singing along, pausing to point out every truck, excavator, dump truck, and city bus (articulated and regular, the difference is important) along our route, happy until he decides that he’d like to listen to "Somebody to Love" like now. Before the age of eighteen months, Lochlan didn’t have much in the way of opinions, aside from his disdain for tummy time, store bought milk, and socks. Except for the 27-pound stroller, the bulky infant car seat, and a bag filled with supplies we might need during a one-hour shopping trip to the mall, it was e