Despite what the Fresh Prince would have us believe, parents understand a few things. One of which is how fleeting and precious quiet moments with are children are. As I dive head first into procrastination this wet winter’s morning, I’m reminded of one from last fall.

It’s March and the AC is already gently rocking drawn shades and haphazardly hung pictures throughout our home. The heat was on two weeks ago, but it 85 degrees today. Not madness for the south, but an eccentric bit of weather to be sure.

It’s baby bedtime and so I’m rocking Vienna to sleep. A sound machine muffles the remnants of neighborhood noise while an old fashioned boom box plays a Muzak version of a song I can’t quite place.

I give it time and once the day’s to-do list drifts away and the white noise does its magic on my incessantly ringing ear, I hear a young Stevie Nicks crooning a Landslide lullaby. Soon that instrumental supermarket monstrosity of a Fleetwood Mac performance fades away completely and I’m left alone with the lyrics… just the darkness and that raspy ghost of a voice.

Vienna’s sleeping now and as I lay her down I can’t help wonder the degree to which music might influence her life. It impacts everyone’s to a degree. We become practitioners, fans, or gym rats whose limbs seem immovable without their ear-bud based motivation.

For me there’s the Billy Joel thing. Friends would hardly peg me a Fleetwood fanatic. Still, here I sit investing an evening in a 40 year-old song. What ridiculous fun.