On Eddie Vedder.

I started teaching my spring SAT class on Monday night. And I've got a new batch of over- and under-achieving teens to meet tonight. Last weekend, I spent hours scoring essays and converting raw scores to scaled scores, and Marley kept me company by doing her own "homework" right across the table.

I started teaching the SAT course ten years ago, when I was a bright, young whipper-snapper who had pretty much just graduated from college. My pop culture references were spot-on. This is no longer so.

In fact, one student answered the SAT prompt, about our need for creativity in the world today, in part by claiming that Kurt Cobain represented the music of her PARENTS' generation and that he was entirely unoriginal. First of all, unless this kid had a teen mom, Kurt Cobain does not represent her parents. Second of all, I don't even know what else to say.

A couple of weeks ago, I monitored the high school weight room while female athletes got all huge and strong before the start of the spring season. I didn't know who any of them were, which was strange, because I used to be able to recognize at least a handful of students whenever I ventured into the high school building, even after I left to be a mom in the daytime. But since the eighth graders I taught while growing a Marley graduated last year, and I haven't been a full-time teacher since I plodded through Across Five Aprils with them, I don't know any H-Town kids unless they're girls who run around with field hockey sticks in the fall or lacrosse sticks in the spring. And then I get to know four classes worth of juniors when I pass on my College Board wisdom in the spring. The important part of this story is, these girls were all working it while a pretty great mix was blasting, and I had just about no idea who any of the artists were. I told Liz about it afterwards, and she was all, "Did you ask if any of them knew Blackstreet?" And I was all, "No diggity." And we thought we were funny.

But it seems that I grew up to be a LOSER. Here's a song that I know: "Don't Bite Your Friends," from Yo Gabba Gabba. Or, much to my dismay, "Bananas," from the GD Fresh Beat Band. Or how about "Chocolate Milk," which I heard on Kids Place Live this morning. And let me get on a soap box for a second. Of COURSE kids should listen to kids' music. I've read some posts or comments or what-have-you from parents online who are all, "Only let your kids listen to the Ramones and the Beatles. They won't know the difference." Dumb. While you're at it, read to your kids from Rolling Stone instead of Highlights, genius. Guess what? You are NOT YOUR KIDS and you don't OWN them and why don't you let them be who they want to be? Marley is listening to "Bananas" in the next room right now, and I sort of want to claw my eyes out, but I will also probably be singing it with her at some point this afternoon.

Everything in moderation, people. It's pretty much my parenting philosophy. Actually, my parenting philosophy is probably, simply: "Pretty much." And last night I had a turn (How about that, Hipster Parents?) to play what I wanted at dinnertime and we heard some Guster and some Pearl Jam. Because I love Pearl Jam, and in about FOURTEEN years, Marley can write about how Eddie Vedder represents the music of her parents' generation. (Actually, her mom's. Todd's older, and he was into The Who just a few years before I was playing Pat Benatar's "Shadows of the Night" in my Fisher Price tape recorder. And I was cool enough to rock out to Duran Duran in kindergarten, true. But I also had some sweet albums, as in vinyl. Like "Elvis Sings for Children" and "Sesame Street Fever.")