As often happens with the second-born, my daughter doesn't get a lot of the fringe benefits my son received in his early years. She's not living in a state of deprivation or anything but she never, for instance, tasted homemade baby food. My husband did not edit a short film about her infant months, set to Death Cab for Cutie and featuring special effects.

I send Evites for her birthday parties rather than handwritten invitations. And while my son took so much Music Together that he was humming, "Hello everybody, so glad to meet you!" in his sleep, my daughter never took a baby music class.

Since I was raised by Roman Catholics, my natural state of being is guilt-ridden, and these little inequities tend to haunt me. So, shortly after her second birthday, I vowed that Stella would not get the fuzzy end of the lollipop any longer. In this neighborhood you can't throw a rock without hitting a kiddie music class, and by George, my daughter was going to one- maybe not Music Together but a similar, more affordable option.

If you've been to tot music class, you'll know that this commitment involves a sacrifice not just of money and of time but of psychic energy. I mean, kiddie music class is perfectly delightful in theory, but what it boils down to in practice is trying to convince yourself you're not embarrassed as you shake your booty while your toddler sucks on somebody else's sippy cup, probably drinking in a hefty dose of cox sackie. And that's best case scenario.

When your kid is not a "joiner" the toll of music class is more than some minor embarrassment and a touch of cox sackie. When your child is not a "joiner" music class ends up being a 45 minute-long episode of tachycardia.

To be fair, the problem is not that Stella is not a joiner but that she's a noncomformist. That's a fancy way to say she's lawless and stubborn. In fact, my daughter loves joining, just on her own terms. So she's totally up for circle time, but neither hell nor high water will make her sit. Instead she runs around the perimeter of the circle like the drunk girl at the party, shrieking requests at the teacher ("Bungalow Bill! Sing Bungalow Bill!") and playing with other children's hair.

Because of my daughter's noncomfornist leanings, my time in music class is spent in the following ways:

1. Thwarting Stella's schemes to take out music accoutrements before the appointed time. This includes egg shakers, scarves, and - worst of all - the parachute. It doesn't matter how nice your music teacher is, if your child drags out the parachute before parachute time, she will earn a permanent place on the teacher's shit list.

2. Convincing Stella to bang on the same wall as the other children. Yes, that's right, there is a part in our class where everyone runs over to one wall and we bang a rhythm on it. Then, at the teacher's command, we run over to the other wall en masse and repeat the sequence there. What makes this a game at all, as opposed to just banging on a wall, (which incidentally I can do for free at home) is the collective aspect of the experience. But while everyone's banging on one wall, my daughter invariably bangs on the opposite one, and when the teacher yells "Other wall!" she speeds full force into the oncoming throng, with her head thrown back in laughter.

3. Trying at all costs to stop Stella from making the other children cry, say, by grabbing their loveys right out of their arms, or by bear-hugging them so hard they gasp for breath.
Forty-five minutes never felt so long.

But towards the end of class, there is a lovely part where the teacher takes out an oversized picture book and we sing the words of the book to a simple melody. Oh, rapture! Stella sits down for a change, which means I sit down and stave off my heart attack. The book changes every few weeks and last class, we were singing to a new one -- Bill Martin Jr. and Eric Carle's Panda Bear, Panda Bear, What Do You See?

If you're not familiar with Panda Bear, Panda Bear, What Do You See? it is exactly and I mean precisely like Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See? except that it features endangered species rather than run-of-the-mill animals. If you're not familiar with either, well, you're not missing a whole hell of a lot. You start by asking the panda bear, "What do you see?" and when you turn the page, there's your answer. "I see a whooping crane looking at me." Then you ask the whooping crane what does he see? Bam. Bald eagle looking at me. If a two year-old can catch on to the pattern, I imagine you have by now too.

So I was just sitting there, zoning out and singing "Spider monkey, spider monkey, what do you see?" when the teacher turned the page and lo and behold, instead of an animal, it was a child. And I swear, I thought I heard the teacher sing, "Demon child, demon child, what do you see?"

There I was, criss-cross-applesauce, with Stella on my lap, singing "Demon child, demon child ..." and wondering how Bill Martin Jr. came to pen such a controversial line, how the book made it to press, trying to decide how I felt about this surprise ending to what I imagined was just another (let's-be-honest) generic board book, and concluding that in fact I rather enjoyed how refreshingly honest the reference to the demon child was when I realized that everyone else in the class was singing, "Dreaming child, dreaming child, what do you see?"

Sure enough, there, very clearly drawn by Carle's competent brush, was a child lying down with closed eyes and moons swirling around his head, almost in the shape of a halo, the very antithesis of a demon.

It was at that moment that I decided this would be our last baby music class. With two little firecrackers in the house, I don't have mental clarity to spare. Besides, it's the burden of the second-born to get short shrift. Builds character.

To read more of Nicole's adventures in Mommyland, visit her blog at amomamok.blogspot.com.