Scott Alexander

Again, I don't know if this was why the police got called.

Maybe in a few weeks I'll learn one of our neighbours got murdered within the GPS margin of error of our house.

But I like to think that it was.

My toddlers jointly calling 911 because I played a slightly different version of their favourite song is too perfect a metaphor to lose.

Everything about having toddlers feels like a permanent emergency.

Often it's the songs.

They like songs, but rarely the same ones, and their tastes can change mid-note.

I try my best to keep up, but after switching back and forth between a pair of songs three or four times, as Kai, it's always Kai, vacillates over which one he wants, sometimes I give up and let him scream it out.

He dreams of one day breaking free of his dependence on me and learning to command Alexa himself.

In this, he is constantly frustrated.

He can't pronounce the incantations with the required precision.

Some of the hardest I've ever laughed was listening to him trying desperately, pleadingly, to make Alexa play Rockin' Robin.

Here's a picture of a small child sitting on the kitchen bench.

The child's holding some kind of home Alexa device with playback happening on the screen and attempting to interact with it.

It's captioned, I say that, fei ruyu ruyu.

Unable to pronounce the titles of most songs, our children have developed their own monikers.

Mr. Golden Sun is Sun Song.

Wheels on the Bus is Bus Song.

Here Comes the Sun is also Sun Song, but don't worry, if you choose the wrong one, they'll let you know by screaming.

Dayinu is Die Die Die Song, which is awkward in the wrong company.