I've given up. I've relinquished control. I've stopped fighting it.

My kid likes lame music.

While I would prefer that she immerse herself in the superiority that is modern rock, she is a pop girl. All. the. way. The mere thought of her grooving to the latest manufactured pop machine makes my skin crawl, but I've decided to embrace the horror and roll with it. As a bonus, I don't have to worry as much about the language that might spew from my car speakers. I still have to worry because some artists SUCK (I'm talking to you, Black-Eyed Peas), but overall, the word choices are a bit safer.

As we bumped and bounced down a gravel road on our way home tonight, I had a pop radio station playing in the background. Alexis sang along to a Taylor Swift song (which, I'm sorry, but PUKE), and then went quiet when a Britney Spears song came on. I glanced in the rear view mirror as we passed near a street light, and saw that she was mesmerized into silence. As Brit belted out a few more choruses, Alexis began to dance. Then she asked, "Who is singing, momma?"

"Britney Spears," I replied. I would like bonus points for not adding, "but I wouldn't really call that 'singing.'"

"I like Britney Spears," she said.

Shoot me now. Please.