Spaghetti heads and air heads

You might recall, you insightful and voracious reader you, that a few months ago I wrote about Cleo's fondness for a CD called Beethoven Lives Upstairs. Part children's story, part musical lesson, and part Viennese promotional literature, it's an appealing fictional epistolary account of a young boy's growing fondness for the quirky but talented composer who lets a room above his house. But it's also, it turns out, part of a series, and due to L.'s attentiveness and diligence, Cleo's now moved on to another entry in the group, called Vivaldi's Ring of Mystery.

Arguably, it's even better. It's certainly more relevant, as it's set in Venice, and it's fun to hear Cleo joyfully repeat references to monuments (such as the Bridge of Sighs) that she saw in person only a few weeks ago. It also does a nice job of integrating samples of Vivaldi's compositions with the story, which is a mystery that centers upon a talented orphaned girl with an unclear past. And, finally, it can also be rather funny - at least, on a plane that appeals to your resident four-year-old. Whenever Vivaldi chides his forgetful students for acting like spaghetti heads, I can hear a small laugh in the back of the car. The laugh, in turn, eventually gives way to experimentation, as Cleo tries to find comparably silly insults that can provoke a smile without being censored by whichever parent happens to be the target. Butt head? Not acceptable. Table head? Well, okay - although it leans towards the nonsensical, it's at least a funny image.

So imagine Cleo's delight when I taught her the phrase air head. I did it self-mockingly, after forgetting for the fifth or sixth time to unbutton a sun dress before trying to pull it over her head. I'm an air head, I said, and she immediately repeated the phrase.

But I think that Cleo, like Vivaldi, knows that terms like air head and spaghetti head are ultimately terms of affection more than they are degradations. At least, one of her recent pronouncements seems to imply as much. A few days ago, as I was buckling her into her car seat, Cleo looked at me meaningfully, and said, 'You know, you guys aren't dumb. And you're not mean, either."

I may be an air head. But I'm smart enough to know that little girls don't mind being called spaghetti heads, when they know that they're loved at the end of the day.