You own 7,000 records, but all she likes is disco … What's the best way to get your children into art without putting them off for life? Our critics reveal their own successes and failures

Alexis Petridis on pop

'The Tweenies made me want to drive the car into a lamppost'

Three years ago, not long after my daughter Esme was born, something rather odd happened. The world at large seemed suddenly obsessed with taking control of children's taste in music, determining to lure them away from Crazy Frog and the Wiggles, steering them instead towards something adults might enjoy. A spate of kids' CDs were released, clearly marketed at parents desperate for an alternative to the Tweenies' Music Is Pop-A-Rooney: there was the Belle and Sebastian-curated Colours Are Brighter, They Might Be Giants' No!, and the Punk Rock Baby series. The chill-out duo Lemon Jelly organised a handful of kid-friendly afternoon concerts.

Then came a series of articles by journalists boasting that they never allowed their children to listen to anything that didn't measure up to their own impeccable taste. One Sunday broadsheet even offered a guide to indoctrinating your toddler in the "classic rock" of Bob Dylan, Van Morrison and the Pogues (play your cards right and your three-year-old could develop musical tastes every bit as boring as those of your average fiftysomething rock hack).

Ours is not the first generation to think that what younger people listen to is drivel; but we are perhaps the first generation conceited and self-centred enough to think we have to do something about it. Personally, I'm a firm believer that it is not a parent's place to meddle in their offspring's music taste: you should let them discover music for themselves. My first musical crush was Adam and the Ants; but I don't think I would have fallen in love with them if my dad had come home with a copy of Kings of the Wild Frontier and started lecturing me on its genius. What made Adam and the Ants special was that I discovered them for myself, in the front room, watching Top of the Pops.

Of course, it was easy to crow about my laissez-faire attitude before Esme started taking an interest in music, which she expressed by screaming until one of her CDs was played on every car journey. And, as I learned, there is no escaping the fact that most children's music is awful – badly written, poorly made, infected with an insulting sense of "this'll do, it's just for kids". Some of it is actively depressing. You can tell the woman trilling The Grand Old Duke of York to the accompaniment of a cheap synthesizer never thought it would come to this.

Never the world's most authoritative motorist, repeated exposure to the Tweenies' Music Is Pop-A-Rooney while driving began to turn me into a one-man public health hazard. Clearly, some other kind of music – something that didn't make me want to mount the pavement and pilot the car into a lamppost – would have to be introduced. The only grown-up music Esme had expressed a liking for was That's Not My Name by the Ting Tings, rather undercutting the song's feminist message with her steadfast belief that it was called Sit On My Knee.

So I settled on disco, partly because it functions on two levels (tunes and glittery fabulousness to entice young ears, but enough emotional complexity to keep adults interested); and partly because it doesn't belong in the dreary canon of "classic rock". To my initial delight, it worked. Esme appeared to love Andrea True Connection's 1976 single More More More, but the record she really alighted on was Sheila and B Devotion's Spacer, produced by Chic at the height of their mind-boggling powers – although she rather undercut its futuristic sophistication with her steadfast belief that it was called Spencer. She wanted to listen to it again and again. And again. To the exclusion of everything else. In my enthusiasm, I had underestimated the capacity of a toddler to repeat an activity they enjoy many, many times.

Two months on, and, despite frantic efforts on my part, nothing has supplanted Spencer in Esme's affection. I now feel the same about Chic at the height of their mind-boggling powers as I once did about the Tweenies' Music Is Pop-A-Rooney. What's the lesson? That I was right all along: don't meddle in your children's musical taste, however tempting it seems.

Three great family songs

Tom Gray: Flyaway Katie

That rarest of things: children's music an adult might enjoy.

Saint Etienne: Up the Wooden Hill

A great track from Saint Etienne's planned (but never finished) children's album.

Four Tet: Go Go Ninja Dinosaur

From the children's album Colours Are Brighter, this endearingly off-kilter, hip-hop-inspired cartoon theme is terrific.

Lyn Gardner on theatre

'She was out and into the foyer like greased lightning'

On the night Vanessa Redgrave was born, in 1937, her father Michael was playing Laertes to Laurence Olivier's Hamlet at the Old Vic in London. At the curtain call, Olivier silenced the applause to announce: "Tonight a great actress was born. Laertes had a daughter." Presumably, after that, Vanessa's destiny was fixed; there was little chance she would become a midwife or an accountant.

Last weekend, my eldest daughter went off to college to study theatre. The youngest has just chosen to take GCSE drama. I'm slightly taken aback by this burgeoning interest, because I have often mistrusted those dynasties that produce generations of actors or doctors or lawyers, somehow feeling that the act of following in your parents' footsteps is a failure of the imagination. Have these people never heard of anthropology, or fishmongering?

My kids have always been more interested in sport. While I was going to the theatre, they were playing tennis, riding horses, rowing, learning to cook three-course meals and helping their dad pick the winner in the 3.15 at Kempton Park. If, as seems likely, at least one of them will end up working in the theatre, I suspect it will be more in spite of my job than because of it. As my eldest put it recently, quite bluntly: "For years I hated theatre, because it was what took you away from us every night. You never put us to bed."

For a long time, I never took them to the theatre with me, either. Like their contemporaries, they grew up on Postman Pat, Where the Wild Things Are and Teletubbies – not Shakespeare. (Although I do recall once reading Edward Bond's Saved, with its famous baby-stoning scene, while feeding the baby one afternoon and feeling slightly guilty.)

Born just before the era when theatre for babies became fashionable, my eldest was three before we ventured into a theatre. It was not a success. The stage was bare but for a dustbin. The show began; a man dressed as a giant talking cat emerged from the dustbin, and my daughter was out and into the foyer like greased lightning.

We avoided theatre for some time after that; but then our outings started to increase. When they were in primary school, Christmas was my favourite time of year, because it was an opportunity to take them with me. My youngest once saw 15 Christmas shows in a month, quite happily – although I suspect the appeal was time spent with me (albeit in the dark) rather than an unhealthy obsession with beanstalks. I noticed that, presented with the opportunity to see a wide range of theatre, the children took it all in their stride; unlike adults, they made absolutely no distinction between high and low, between contemporary dance and opera. They enjoyed pretty much everything, particularly ice-cream at the interval.

But I never forced either of them to come. By 11 or 12, my eldest had lost interest. She didn't want to come, unless it was the Lion King or Sam West was in it. (She sat gripped through four hours of his Hamlet, despite "not liking" Shakespeare.) Comedy was her thing, and it was comedy – particularly at the Edinburgh fringe – that brought her back to theatre a few years ago.

At an age when many mothers and teenage daughters find themselves growing apart, I now have a terrific bonus: a daughter who wants to come out with me at every possible opportunity. She may only be there for the free tickets, but theatre has brought us together in a way I could never have imagined after that first disastrous trip, and I'll always be grateful. Regular theatre-going may not produce children that are any more cultured than their peers, but it can do wonders for relationships. Could it be that the family that goes to plays together, stays together, too?

Three great family shows

War Horse

Pure poetry – but be ready for tears.

Billy Elliot

They'll be dancing in their seats.

A good pantomime

Try York Theatre Royal or the Hackney Empire.

Peter Bradshaw on film

'Watch a movie with a five-year-old and it becomes more potent'

Several years ago, I was sprawled on the sofa in the front room, watching a video of a hardcore Asian film whose name now escapes me. Agonised screams of torture victims rang around the room, together with the dull thunking sound of a machete meeting an unexpectedly tough femur. My partner entered the room and her pained glance took it all in.

"Is this entirely appropriate?" she said acidly.

"Well, look, you know, this is my job," I started whining. "It's what I do for a living, I mean . . ."

"No," she interrupted, pointing at my chest. "That's what I mean." I looked down and saw there the curled-up, dozing figure of my three-month-old son, Dominic.

Our subsequent debate established, after some acrimony, that he was unable to take anything in, but that I should not mix childcare with watching very violent films – and that I should think hard about how to introduce Dominic to films more generally.

I have never, and would never, sit my five-year-old son down and make him watch a movie with the intention of teaching him what to like. What a counterproductive business that would be. I have taken him to the cinema many times, to watch great films like Wall-E, and dodgy ones like Alvin and the Chipmunks, but only in the same spirit that I've taken him to the pool, the zoo and the Proms.

It certainly wouldn't have occurred to my own father , a professional photographer, to drum into me who the great photographers were. But as it happened, he loved the cinema and would sometimes chat about it, casually. I remember him once cheerfully telling me and my sister, then respectively 12 and 11, all about the plot of Psycho over the dinner table. He also told me that Kind Hearts and Coronets was the greatest of the Ealing comedies – and he was absolutely right. Part of the reason my father loved the film, I think, was the fact that one of Alec Guinness's characters was Henry D'Ascoyne, a keen photographer, and I never watch the film without thinking of him.

Occasionally, reviewers are invited to bring their children along to special family screenings. Before I had my son, and for a while afterwards, I rather looked down on this practice, on the grounds that it was a coy abnegation of critical responsibility. It's all very well saying that, hey ho, this film isn't for the likes of me, it's for the kids, so I'll bring some children and ask them what they think. That's a bit wet. I think the critic has to delve inwards to find his or her own inner child.

But there's no doubt that watching a film with your child gives you an insight you wouldn't otherwise get. When I first saw the Disney/Pixar film Up, I knew that I loved it, and also that I had a very emotional response to it. The film has a brilliantly composed montage sequence showing a little boy growing into a young man, getting married and then, finally, heart-rendingly, becoming a sad and lonely old widower, who eventually ties thousands of multicoloured helium balloons to his house so that he can fly away. I cried when I watched it the first time, and felt very nervous about watching it again, in the company of my son: how would he react to the sight of his dad sobbing through a film?

As it turned out, I needn't have worried. The 3D glasses hid my swollen eyes. But Dominic wasn't sad at the death of the old lady, not in the way I was – although he seemed to pick up on the general tone of melancholy, chiefly through the sad orchestral score.

He was, however, absolutely terrified at the appearance of a pack of savage dogs halfway through. Jaded and obtuse grown-up that I was, it had never occurred to me that this scene was really frightening – only dramatic. Through a scientific gizmo implanted into their collars, these dogs have the ability to talk. However, their leader, a scary Doberman, experiences a problem with his voice-gizmo and his voice comes out all high-pitched and squeaky. Only later is his awful, booming drone allowed to be heard. Before, I had taken this to be a straightforward gag. Now, I think I can see that it is something else: a way of making sure that children do not freak out too early at the appearance of this horrible hound.

As for the scenes showing people almost falling from houses that have been hoisted up into the air – well, it didn't occur to me to think they were vertiginous and scary, either. Just funny. But watch the film with a five-year-old – who takes it all straight, and doesn't realise that you can't, in fact, make a house fly up into the air with balloons – and you start picking up on the fear. This fear started to react, chemically, with the sadness that was still sloshing about in my subconscious; the film was far more potent, more disquieting second time around.

So it hasn't been a question of me teaching Dominic about films. More him teaching me. That's a better arrangement.

Three great family films

ET: The Extra-Terrestrial

A thrilling parable of childlike wonder.

Les Vacances de Monsieur Hulot

Tati's comedy classic shows the adult's inner child.

Spirited Away

A handcrafted animation that speaks to children's vulnerability.

Judith Mackrell on dance



'As the dancer stepped out, my son piped up: "Not him again!"'

Today's dance companies have wised up to the demand for child-friendly performances. The English National Ballet now offers a cute introduction to tutus and pointe shoes in their Angelina Ballerina adaptations, while choreographers Will Tuckett, Arthur Pita and Liv Lorent are experimenting with forms of family dance that don't require an interest in Darcey Bussell.

But when my two teenage boys (now 19 and 16) were very small, there was not much to take them to, beyond the annual Christmas Nutcracker. Promises of ice-cream saw us through a couple of early performances, but that soon didn't cut it. I knew it was a hopeless case when, after enjoying the marauding mice in the opening act, Fred, the eldest, began to fidget through the pure dance numbers. Our prince that evening was the Japanese virtuoso Teddy Kumakawa. As he stepped out of the wings for his final variation, my boy's protest was pipingly audible: "Oh no, not him again!"

It's lovely if your kids share your passions. But it's not something you can force, and, given all the other areas in which parents are required to be tyrants – schoolwork, teeth-cleaning, table manners – I decided I didn't want dance to be part of that battle.

As my boys got older, it was obvious what they enjoyed and what they didn't. And while I believed it was important for them to stay open to new experiences – including the occasional dance performance – I only suggested shows that chimed with what they cared about. Fred loved the movies, for instance, and particularly the films of Tim Burton, so my kudos as a mother was never higher than when I took him to the first night of Matthew Bourne's adaptation of Edward Scissorhands – attended by Burton himself.

The hip-hop boom also proved popular; music generally has tempted both boys to an unexpected variety of performance. From Merce Cunningham's use of Radiohead to Anne Teresa de Keersmaeker's concert of Steve Reich dances and Michael Clark's homage to David Bowie, Iggy Pop and Lou Reed, there have been several quite rarefied dance events to which they've asked to come, largely because they've wanted to hear the scores.

I don't think either of them would now come to a dance show for the choreographic content alone. But I can chat to them about what I've seen without being greeted with blank stares. All the performances we've seen together have somehow settled into the general compost of family life.

Great family dance theatre

Hip-hop shows

They have the music as well as the moves; also, they cut across the boy/girl divide and appeal to most ages.

Will Tuckett's family-oriented repertory A winning mix of dance puppetry and theatre, reinventing familiar fairytales.

Sampled

Sadler's Wells's annual taster programme offers bite-size chunks of classical ballet, flamenco, and all shades of contemporary dance.

Jonathan Jones on art

'I let her touch the sculptures. What harm can baby hands do?'

The other day, my four-year-old daughter told me with a grin: "I'm chopping the fish." She had a toy knife and a plastic bowl. Inside the bowl was a jigsaw piece with the word "fish" on it. Kids, eh – teach them to read and they think they're René Magritte.

Primavera's love of clowning is certainly fed by a precocious knowledge of art. On her first day at nursery last year, she was shown a painting of flowers. Asked what it was, she replied: "Sunflowers by Vincent van Gogh." She was right – it was, but I think she was just meant to say "flowers".

In Jean-Luc Godard's film Bande à Part, there is a scene where the heroes run through the Louvre, past the history paintings of David and Géricault. I've got used to running through museums in the same way. The Elgin Marbles gallery in the British Museum is my daughter's personal racetrack (we live nearby) and one day I hope to be able to stop and look at the frieze. But she learns on the hoof. Ask her what those half-horse monsters carved into the marble are and she'll tell you they are centaurs.

I love two things in this world, art and my family, so of course the two come together in all sorts of ways. We visit galleries a lot, and Primavera knows – increasingly – that I write about art and that it may therefore be a way of getting my attention. This summer, she strode around the Uffizi gallery in Florence announcing herself as Primavera, the most important modern artist in the world.

But I definitely don't have aspirations to turn her into an art critic or an artist. The wonderful thing about being four is that all the world, all possibilities, are waiting. Who knows where this will lead? What I do believe in is education, and that museums are great places to nurture minds of all ages. This discovery is scarcely unique to me; Britain's museums are full of families. But I have learned a couple of things that might help.

One is that adults who are bored by museums will communicate that boredom. Her parents both love museums, so the enthusiasm is infectious; she knows we are at our best there. Another thing is to break the rules, or at least bend them. When she was a baby I let her touch the sculptures, surreptitiously. What harm can baby hands do? Now we play and yell in galleries, occasionally reprimanded by a humourless guard. Would they rather I sat her at home in front of CBeebies?

Our favourite museum is the one with the dinosaurs, of course, and the richness of the Natural History museum is magical. But art creeps in even there. Once we were playing in its Investigate room and Primavera organised some butterflies into a Hirst-like installation. "It's modern art!" commented a supervisor. Well, she says she's the most important modern artist in the world: what did they expect?

Great family artworks

British Museum

The perfect place for a baby to discover world art. And the mummies ensure the interest of older children.

George Stubbs's Whistlejacket

The rearing majesty of Stubbs's horse, at the National Gallery, appealed to my daughter straight away.

Jackson Pollock drip paintings

It may seem risky to introduce babies to abstract art, but drip painting does give them art ideas. Very messy art ideas …