Is it the singing or the song?

Introducing you to alternative bands and rap groups is largely a failing endeavor. Gorillaz. Broken Bells. Jogger. Wu-Tang Clan. None of these calm or capture your interest. Your dad reaches into his mental crates and sings "Lucky Star," or "Sledgehammer," or "In the Air Tonight." Rarely does anything work to the extent that your dad can say, "Yes, Madonna works," or "Peter Gabriel works," or Phil Collins. Guess you had to be there for Phil Collins.

But you're never happier than when you mom and dad sing together in church. Your dad's faulty baritone coupled with your mom singing harmony in alto. They sing that they'll live for all their days to raise a banner of truth and light. Then sing about trading their sorrows, trading their shame, laying them down. And you sing back in a bubbly coo or with a grinning outburst.

So, despite your dad's inadvertent efforts to secularize your musical tastes, for whatever reason, God works.

Literary kick, musical kick

"I'm not sure if this is baby." Your mom presses her fingers into the firm, cylindrical pouch swelling outward from her belly button.

"I don't know," your dad says.

"Put your hand here. No, here. Do you feel anything?"

Your dad puts his hand on your mom's belly. You kick. Hard. Your dad gives you a solid push back. You kick again.

"What does that feel like? What does that feel like inside?" your dad asks.

"Like little earthquakes," your mom says. "Like little aftershocks from earthquakes."

"That doesn't help me," your dad says.

You kick -- one, two. Your dad taps his fingertips on your mom's belly. He moves it across her, like a horse-galloping spider. You kick some more.

"Here," your dad says to your mom. "I'm just going to read outloud while my hand is on your belly." In the story, Robert Jordan is clinging to Maria, only hours away from blowing up the bridge. "We'll see if baby likes Hemingway," your dad says.

Your dad reads For Whom the Bell Tolls. Your mom would sleep, but grows concerned. You've never kicked this much. But you will also kick when your mom and dad play music featuring violins. Andrew Bird, Beirut, Yann Tiersen. Your mom and dad will wonder then, too, whether you kick because you are learning how to dance, or because you are learning how to cry.

Musical mash-ups, and why your dad isn't a rapper

If you step into this world, oddly soothed by the sometimes drug-addled croonings of James Blunt, you can blame your mother. She was singing "You're Beautiful" this morning. Well, not exactly "You're Beautiful." It was "You're Cuticle." Your mom and I incessantly come up with silly portmanteaus of words. They're like a linguistic version of a musical mash-up. Deejays concoct things like the Gray Album, layering Jay-Z over the Beatles; or Michael Jackson's "Beat It" lyrics cutting into Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit" guitar riffs.

Your mom made a mash-up of the words "cute" and "beautiful," then fit it right back into that same James Blunt song. Sorry about that. Some kids grow up with parents that expose them to '60s rock, old school hip hop, or classical music. You just might fall into an unlucky percentage that emerge from the womb with accelerated pop sensibilities. I'll do what I can, but I'm fairly certain that Kanye West isn't considered a backpacker rapper anymore, and Alt-Rock-Country, or whatever you might call the Raconteurs, won't be around forever. Michael Jackson died on June 25th. That's six weeks ago, half a lifetime for you. You'll probably hear your dad playing some of his songs now and again.

If beatboxing was a musical genre, then your dad might've made a small chunk of change as a producer. But otherwise, an embarrasing run in with a talent show during his sophomore year of high school ensured that your dad won't be touching any microphones anytime soon. The incident in question was fifteen years ago, but it was one of those life-defining moments that not-so-gently nudge you in a different direction.