BUCKING THE SYSTEM: LYRICAL FREESTYLE WORRIES MOM'S MUSICAL SENSIBILITIES

Music has always been an important aspect of the Buck household.

It started while Patrick and I were still dating. I impressed him with my knowledge of Bobby Womack and Aretha Franklin, and he caught my attention when he recited the life histories of David Ruffin and Teddy Pendergrass.

We shared a common love in each other and in the classic rhythm-and-blues sounds of the 60s and 70s, loves that both flourished as we realized we also could share an eclectic enjoyment of jazz and the blues, Elton John and NWA, James Taylor and Johnny Taylor.

Since our marriage, we've even merged some of our more different music styles. Take my introduction of Patrick to my favorite Teena Marie, Merle Haggard, Bob Marley and Kirk Franklin albums, music he never imagined he would listen to.

And I've learned, as well. Patrick has taught me that Tupac was a lyrical genius, and that there can be something wonderfully simple about the music of Jim Croce and O.C. Smith.

As I said, we listen to just about anything.

Music for us exists everywhere, from the moderate gospel and old-school sounds in my car to the booming anything-goes system in Patrick's Tracker. From the MP3's and CD tunes blaring out of our computer console in the attic office to the it's-time-to-wake-up hip-hop house system that could only be placed in the basement.

Our children love this environment. Maybe it's because I sang lullabies to them from the time I learned of my pregnancies, or maybe it's the time they spend at choir practice and in the choir loft at church. Whatever the reason, my children would rather listen to music than watch television and have developed ears discerning enough to differentiate the base in their father's automobile from others that pass by.

But unfortunately, although Patrick and I now have lyrics to thousands of songs in our heads, our children can't even get the words to "Old McDonald" right.

Jerry, who has perfect timing and decent pitch, has had better than four years to learn how to mess up lyrics. Take, for example, the recent Nelly hit "Country Grammar," which remakes a classic hand jive. After a little doctoring by Jerry, that poor song has been reduced to this:

Down down baby, rooster in a roller coaster,

Boom boom baby, ready to let it go,

Chicken chicken little what ...

and everything else is unintelligible.

One of his first remakes was "Fly Like An Eagle" as performed by Seal on the Space Jam soundtrack. That song, which also is used by the U.S. Post Office in its television commercials, is actually "Fly like a noodle to the sea" in Jerry's world.

And let's not forget PJ, who celebrates his second birthday next month. He already is showing he plans to follow in his big brother's footsteps when it comes to lyrics.

Our best example of PJ's recreations occurs in the song "Who Let the Dogs Out (Woof, Woof). PJ simplifies the lyrics to "Dog Let Out (rururururururu)" as he bounces around on my nice living room furniture.

It's cute. It's enthusiastic. But it doesn't sound good.

The one song both kids consistently get right is "Oops, I Did It Again" by Brittany Spears. Maybe their accuracy comes from the fact they have so many accidents where they can use that phrasing as an excuse.

I can only be happy with my children's love of music, but I am hoping that brain development and lessons from masters will enable them to get a firmer grip on lyrics. Who knows, they may be selected for a "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire"-like show one day, and I don't want my child to be the one who takes home a measly $200 because he didn't know where Old McDonald lived because he never learned the words.