Usually before we even get in the car, my 3-year-old boy asks me the question: “Daddy, do you have your iPod?”

Freakin love this kid. Of course Daddy has his iPod, boy, of course he does.

So we start up the car and, before I pull out, I ask Jake what he wants to hear. The other day, Jake says “I want to hear ‘Iron Man.’” Boy do I love this kid.

So on to Ozzy we go. Jake sits kind of quietly but you can tell he’s happy in the metal glory of it all. Thankfully, it doesn’t end at that song.

Jake and Owen both like their rock. I’m sure there are some out there (I’m looking at you Tipper Gore), who might have a problem with kids who rock. I say bring that debate if you think you have it in you.

For my kids,  maybe it was that I sang them Fountains of Wayne as night-night songs, maybe it’s that we dropped baby music early and taught them to sing along to U2. More than anything, the trick has been that they like superheroes as much as they do – we all know superheroes rock (and it helps that the one version of the Spiderman song I play the kids is the great cover by The Ramones).

And there’s some history to rocking it in my family. I vividly remember my Mom putting a Beatles album on every Sunday and singing along with me while Dad made breakfast. I also remember the time Dad reached for the volume on the dash when he realized that song by The Who we were enjoying was about to go into ‘Who the f— are you?”

And my folks encouraged it throughout. Mom sat up late with us when MTV broadcast U2’s “Live at Red Rocks” and bought into it because she thought “Gloria” just might be a religious song. And when I couldn’t find a friend to join me, Dad hit Dire Straits with me at Radio City. I still love the image of him fist-pumping to “Solid Rock” from the second row.

So are we who salute our kids who rock normal? Is this healthy? I don’t know, I don’t care. But I’ll put forth that it is damn healthy.

Yanni is wimp music and I’m just not going to sing along with Barney in my car, no way. I think kids are born to rock because they are born to move. They see my energy and excitement when we pop on The Clash and dance around the living room. When putting on snow boots this winter, they almost always laughed that it was time to “Get on Your Boots.” That’s a lot better than the usual griping that comes with winter boots.

I’ll take my chances that the boys will end up playing Slayer a bit too loud when they hit their teens. And, like my Dad did, I might just be right there with them.

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