She shook her head.

 "He sang "White Christmas". You know that one, don't you?"

 She shook her head again, then examined her nails.

 "How much longer are you going to be doing this? Can't we go home?"

 Normally she wouldn't mind my shopping a bit, but she'd discovered that not only was there nothing in that particular store in which she was interested, but I wasn't going to buy her anything anyway. I'm trying to convince my children I have nothing in common with the Rothschilds. But I was stuck on Bing.

 "I'm dreaming of a white Christmas? Remember that?" I said, rather than sang. Her pretty little face reflected a degree of boredom usually associated with jury duty on civil cases.

 "No. Can we leave?"

 "Not yet. Back to "White Christmas" -- want me to sing it for you?"

 Finally. A sign there's a pulse underneath all that hair and attitude. The color drained from her face.

 "Oh, no, Mom. I'd commit suicide," she said.

 I bought my CDs and we climbed in the van and for punishment, I sang "White Christmas" all the way home.

 "At least I didn't sing it out loud in the store," I said sweetly as I pulled up into our driveway. She bailed and headed for her room to put on a CD more to her liking.

 We started having music wars in our house ever since someone gave the kids a Backstreet Boys CD. The problem is that I like them and that, of course, makes them poison in my children's eyes.

 I used to sashay around the house, dusting and mopping, vacuuming and washing, and all to the beat of the boys. I got to where I liked them so much I actually knew most of the words to the songs. In fact, that's what led to the Great Musical Divide.

 "Backstreet Boys are back!" I boomed behind the dust mop. My children -- the one who stopped liking me a year ago and the one who is starting not to like me even as I write this column, exchanged glances that said: Where's the Spanish Inquisition when you need it?

 "Mom," Elizabeth ventured with about the same amount of tact cops use on shoplifters, "You stink."

 "Why thank you, darling. How about a little Shania Twain? Want me to tell you about the woman in me?"

 I think those were retching noises she was making but I ignored them, fascinated instead by my son's reaction.

 My son -- the only person in the family I could count on to still like me when I shrank his favorite shirt, made mystery meat for dinner or forgot to wake him up in time for his favorite Saturday cartoon. Grounding him couldn't shake his devotion to his dear old mom. Spanking him wouldn't make him desert me. Scolding him or praising him, he never wavered in his love for his mother. Until I sang.

 "Mom, what's that song you're singing?" he asked one afternoon as I accompanied Arlo Gutherie in belting out my all-time personal favorite, "City of New Orleans". I was dancing around the den with one of those big feathery things you use to dust the ceiling fan.

 "City of New Orleans", honey. It's my favorite song," I said, then lapsed back into the chorus. I love that chorus.

 "Oh. Could you turn it up, please?" My little boy asked.

 "Sure. Be glad to," I said and flipped the volume up to a level more usually associated with automobile-manufacturing plants.

 "So you like this song, huh?" I yelled at him, pleased he shared my taste in music.

 "No, not really," he yelled back. "But if it's loud I can't hear you sing."

 The little twits. Wait until their friends come over. I have a song lined up that'll knock their social lives right into the dirt.